


the necessity of risk

by returntosaturn



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Coming Out, Emotions, Feelings, Happy Ending, M/M, but everyone needed, general softness and warmth, patrick gets a tattoo, tattoo AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22109830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Summary: Patrick blinks.He’s tall—taller, anyway—with perfectly swept dark hair, wearing a short sleeved button up with some monochromatic abstract pattern. It stands out in direct contrast to the rich color of the tattoos etched from his biceps to his wrists. Swaths of orange and pink and blue florals. He’s so struck by the color, the contrast, the face, that he can’t really pick out the details in the designs at first.“So what am I working with?” David says with a casual wave of his hand.// David is a tattoo artist. Patrick wants a symbol of a new start.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 170
Kudos: 668





	1. season nineteen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you to [dameofpowellestate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dameofpowellestate/pseuds/dameofpowellestate) for coming up with this idea and letting me run with it, and also popping into my Google Docs to cheerlead me everyday.
> 
> I've got tattoos, but I'm not a professional artist, so I probably missed a few steps and nuances here and there. Please forgive.
> 
> //
> 
> Draw your own conclusions about what Patrick's tattoo looks like.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> season nineteen - Greyson Chance

The shopkeeper’s bell chimes through a roaring metal band played through crackling speakers. The shop is neat, clean, bright. Artwork covers every inch of the walls. The ceiling is hammered tin with modern, wrought-iron lighting fixtures. It all kind of works together somehow. The music, the ceiling, the artwork, the vinyl script plastered to the door declaring ‘No drunks, No kids, No attitudes, No bullshit.’

It's not the seedy dungeon he was expecting. He’d already seen the inside of the place on Google, but it was still a bit of a relief to see it standing in actual brick and mortar, not a hellhole of stolen photos and faked five-star reviews.

The woman at the desk has long dark hair, a somber expression, and wears a faded flannel about two sizes too large.

“Hi. How can I help you?” she says, friendly enough.

“Yeah. Wondering if you’ve got space for a walk-in,” Patrick says, the pristine printout of his artwork in clutched in both hands.

“Sure, I think we can do that. Let me just check in and see who’s free.”

He sees now that each artist’s station is occupied by customers, the sound of tattoo needles cutting the air like mosquitos in June. 

The woman passes all the main stations on the floor and heads for a door towards the back, which is odd, but he has no idea how these places really work.

He looks down at his paper, a twinge of nerves coursing through him at the sounds. This is real now. Not just some fleeting thought. This is something that will be with him forever. For what this means to him, the irony is striking. 

Before he can get too tangled in his thoughts, he looks up to see the dark haired girl coming back over, someone else in tow.

“Ok, I asked you to let me see their artwork first though…” he’s hissing.

“Yeah but just stop being…You’re the only one not doing anything...”

“Ok but it’s just wasting time to do it that way...”

Their bickering subsides as they near him. A sly but benign smile crosses the girl’s face. No, it was definitely sly. He definitely didn’t miss that. Her eyes tick up to watch the guy expectantly from where she stands, just over his shoulder. 

The guy just stares. The girl stares at the guy.

Patrick suddenly feels like he’s in ninth grade again, on stage as Jack in  _ Into the Woods.  _ Like he’s supposed to be doing something spectacular and impressive while people just sit back and watch. And if doesn’t do that spectacular thing, well, they’ll just keep staring.

“Hi, I’m Patrick,” he says, breaking the tension, and extends his hand.

The guy takes it. The silver rings that adorn his fingers are cool and solid against Patrick’s.

“David,” he answers, almost under his breath.

Patrick blinks.

He’s tall—taller, anyway—with perfectly swept dark hair, wearing a short sleeved button up with some monochromatic abstract pattern. It stands out in direct contrast to the rich color of the tattoos etched from his biceps to his wrists. Swaths of orange and pink and blue florals. He’s so struck by the color, the contrast, the  _ face,  _ that he can’t really pick out the details in the designs at first. 

“So what am I working with?” David says with a casual wave of his hand.

“Ah…” He looks down at the paper he’s brought along. “I was thinking something like this.”

He shifts to show him.

David nods, considering. “Mm. That’s really nice. Nice colors, nice shape. Could I just…”

He plucks the paper from Patrick’s hands.

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll see what I can do, k?”

And just like that, he turns back the way he’d come, leaving just Patrick and the receptionist, who blinks up at him, looking somehow secretly pleased.

“He doesn’t work with other people’s artwork,” she says.

“I see,” Patrick nods, puts his hands on his hips. “What if that was something sentimental to me?”

“Is it?”

“I mean, not specifically but…”

“He’ll take your ideas into consideration. He’s really great, I promise,” she says, looking somehow sincere and like she’ll burst into laughter at any moment, but then she’s pulling up the layers of her careworn flannel and black tank top to reveal the depiction of a cabaret girl painted into her side. She wears some sort of silky lingerie, posed with an old nineteen-twenties style microphone, looking downwards, with a secret little smile, and Patrick’s wondering how much detail can possibly be written into one tattoo.

She shoves her shirt back down.

Tattoo parlors are places with a low bar for modesty, he decides.

"He's not going to put a cabaret girl on me, is he?" Patrick smiles.

Stevie rolls her eyes and moves back behind the front counter. “If you’re really, really lucky,,” she quips. “He’s been known to go rogue.”

“I’m feeling very confident about this decision now, thank you.” 

“You’ll be fine, just as long as he doesn’t have one of his episodes.” Her eyes go wide.

“If I end up with stars tattooed on my face, I’ll be blaming you.”

“That’s what the waiver’s for,” she says, and thrusts a clipboard at him. “I’m Stevie by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.” He tips the clipboard.

He sits, goes about filling out the paperwork, under the loud music and the tin ceiling and the buzzing needles.

He’s just finished when David returns, balancing an iPad. The screen shows vivid colors that blend seamlessly. Expert lines. Its everything Patrick had intended and more. Its the original idea times ten.

Its stunning.

“I love it,” he says. “Really, really cool.”

David just smirks and nods.

“It’s a lot bigger than what I’d intended on though.”

“This new one really pulls out the details, makes a statement,” David says, and Patrick glances down at the artwork, contemplating. 

He’s nearly right up against his shoulder. He can smell a warm, woodsy scent like pines in snow, even over the antiseptic cutting thorugh the rest of the shop. 

“It’ll take considerably more time than what you came with, but art takes time.”

Rachel didn’t like tattoos. Didn’t see why anyone would want to do that to themselves, let alone sit through all the discomfort to do it. He never thought he’d be getting one whether or not his fiancee approved, but it had been burning in the back of his mind since April. Since he’d broken off the engagement. Since he’d spent an entire four days away, hiking Bruce Trail, ignoring every call and text, confronting the one conclusion that had been stuck at the back of his mind for years.

He needed a new start. Some turning point. Some separation between the life he thought he was supposed to have, and the life he couldn’t stand to go on not having. 

“Alright,” he says, as if that summarizes it all.

“I was thinking the forearm.”

“Oh, uh… I’d prefer nowhere really visible. I want to be able to see it, but I’d like to hide it for work and stuff.”

“The upper arm is fine too,” David says, as if this is an appropriate second option he’ll approve.

“That works.”

David tilts his head, squints.

“Awfully decisive, aren’t you?” he says, and turns indicating Patrick should follow.

“Good luck!” Stevie chimes with a wave.

Patrick throws a smile over his shoulder. 

He follows David to the back room, where he and Stevie had come from earlier. The little room is not really a little room. Its large enough to comprise a workstation, an apron sink atop a dark wood cabinet, two big black velvet armchairs, and two more modest, vinyl covered chairs that remind him of the doctor’s office and are clearly where David and the client are meant to sit. A plush black rug covers the dark smoky tile. A warm lamp with an Edison bulb glows in the corner, under the fluorescent work lights. There’s still plenty of room to spare.

The room is both as close to comfort as a place like this can get, and neat as a pin. Everything is in its place. There’s no excess, but just enough.

When David shuts the door, the groan of the metal music on the main floor is silenced, and David gives a relieved sigh.

“Oh my god, thank god, I’m on the verge of a migraine.”

He grabs a little bite-sized remote from a short shelf set with speakers and a small library of books on tattooing. Some kind of slow, electronic pop music starts from the speakers. David stands there a moment and takes a deep centering breath.

Patrick watches the spot where his dark hair fades at the nape of his neck. 

David goes to the sink and removes his rings, dropping them into a little dish. He washes his hands a little too vigorously, like a surgeon, up past his wrists and everything. 

Patrick takes this opportunity to find details in David’s tattoos.

On his right arm, a spray of cherry blossoms unfurls from under his sleeve to just below his tricep. 

Just above his elbow is a simple, lopsided letter A.

On the other arm, there’s flowers he can’t name and isn’t sure even exist in the real world, but they’re painted in rich blues and oranges, pinks and greens that make Patrick’s tongue feel heavy. 

Above this elbow is a thin band of rainbow colors that extends around his entire bicep. Patrick watches this one intently.

David continues prepping, flitting about the room to wipe this and straighten that. Patrick isn’t even sure it’s necessary to sanitize the outside of the diffuser that’s set next to the speakers or the speakers themselves for that matter, but David’s covering nearly each and every surface.

When he judges it complete, he stands at the center of the room and gives a satisfied exhale, swishing the alcohol-soaked cotton pad through the air like it’s a smudge stick. 

Patrick smiles from where he stands, quietly delighted.

Next, he fixes the chairs. Gets them exactly perfect, angles the bright work light just so, and turns to the workstation to pull on gloves.

“Mmkay, time to get naked,” he says casually.

Patrick flushes, just a little, because he finds the suggestion isn’t as nerve wracking as he thought. Being shirtless in front of a guy. He’s been swimming with friends before. But this is not a friend and this is not a routine doctor visit or any ordinary, non-charged occurrence. This is different and they are about to be very close. When nerves don’t grab him like they should, its puzzling.

He goes for it, making a race out of it to see if he can get his buttons undone before David turns around.

He’s successful. He misses David turning back to him while he’s tossing his shirt onto one of the armchairs. It’s entirely business when he sees David holding the stencil.

Mostly entirely.

Because David’s eyes linger for the barest of seconds before he steps over to him to align the stencil.

When he smooths the transfer paper over the curve of his bicep, Patrick’s throat goes dry.

He pulls off the backing. “Take a look.”

A full length mirror rests between the armchairs. Patrick looks, and it’s...really fucking cool and for some reason tears start to sting just behind his nose.

It’s a new start. A symbol of it, at least.

“Wow. That’s…”

“Mhm,” David chirps and gives his shoulder a pat. “Is that exactly where you want it and everything? You really need to give me a yes or no at this point.”

“Yes. It’s amazing.”

He looks up at David, who just smiles back, wry and tucked snugly at the corner of his mouth. 

“Have a seat.” He gestures. “Don’t move a thing, it’s absolutely perfect.”

Patrick sits. David sits, and goes through an entirely new ritual to get himself in just the right spot. He sweeps a bit of ointment over the area. Under the gloves, the contact isn’t as intimate as he’d imagined. Its firm and adamant and professional. Just clinical and detached enough to give Patrick’s mind a rest.

Which is what he really needs currently, because this is fucking permanent. 

“Ready?” David says, like he’s reading his mind.

Patrick takes a deep breath. There’s many things he wasn’t sure if he’d been ready to confront this year, but he’d bitten the bullet and done it. Done what felt right. He was proud of that.

He nods. “I’m ready.”

“Here we go.” David says it like they’re really in it together.

The needle zings to life and pinches his skin and he doesn’t wince, doesn’t even move a muscle. It's definitely not the most comfortable thing in the world, but not the worst. He remembers the sharp, heavy pain when he’d broken his wrist sliding home freshman year. The deep throb in his ankle when his skate worked loose and rolled under that one winter he and some friends played three-on-three on the frozen lake. When he’d sliced his thumb with a fishing knife on a camping trip with his dad. All of those times had hurt a lot worse and been much scarier than this. This he could handle.

“Breathe and relax, and you’ll be great,” David says.

“It isn’t bad actually.”

“Oh,” David chuckles. “Confident, aren’t we?”

Patrick smiles secretly. He’s felt nothing close to confident for the last how ever many years. It’s just been easy to play, because in general, that was who he was. It was who people expected from him. Confident, certain, sturdy.

“Guess I am,” he says.

It still feels a little like pretend for a second until he thinks on the way David’s laugh is understated and easy. He can tell it isn’t something he doesn’t do often, and when he does, he means it.

They go quiet for a moment, just the buzz of the needle and the angry pinch and the weight of David’s full hand on his bicep, focused and precise, keeping him exactly where he wants him. Music bumps lowly through the speakers. The bass is almost as aggressive as the metal playing outside, but it’s entrancing. He doesn’t listen to anything like this on the regular, but he concentrates on the electronic ticks and thumps.

David’s hand shifts, changes, positions, grips a little tighter.

Patrick has to work to clear his head before he can speak.

“I’m kind of surprised you aren’t making fun of me for what I chose.”

“Why would I do that?” David’s voice is quiet with concentration before he looks up and takes a break. “No, that’s a sign of a shitty tattoo artist if they judge your artwork. It’s for you. All that matters is how you feel about it.”

It’s the longest he’s held Patrick’s gaze, and Patrick finds it just a little disappointing when he looks away too quickly to go back to his work. He sees David’s smile settle into the corner of his mouth again, a deep dimple appearing.

“Total honesty, I think it’s really sick. I mean, I drew it, so of course.” He’s careful to still the needle before looking up and gesturing with his free hand.

Patrick smiles. He’s smiling an awful lot.

“You’re very talented. You should have your own shop.”

David gives a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I used to.”

“Oh. Why not anymore?”

There’s a sigh. David turns away, takes a little longer doing whatever he’s doing.

“Have you ever heard of Rose Video?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, we’re those Roses.”

_ Oh _ .

He’d heard about it on the news, and followed the story—though the media’s interest in it was suspiciously short—for awhile just to see how it all ended up.

He’d worked at a Rose Video in high school. He and Rachel had had a long-standing date on Friday nights of whichever movie he’d been given free rentals on that week. 

The Roses had lost just about everything. But he’d never heard a precise conclusion to the story. The whole ordeal just sort of...faded out of the public consciousness. He wouldn’t dare ask. 

"So when my parents lost all their money, I lost my shop," David said nonchalantly, as if he’s bored of telling the story, bored of thinking about it. “They...unbeknownst to me, had a very vested interest in it.”

David’s voice goes crisp and clipped.

Patrick's face falls. He couldn't imagine his life falling apart like that. Nothing had ever fallen apart for him. There was just a million little things that hadn’t fit. 

"I'm so sorry David."

He hears David clear his throat. “Well, I still get to do it, at least. I’ve been doing a lot of meditating on feeling forgiveness, but I just...don’t yet?”

Patrick thinks of his own happy, proud parents. Can picture them in his mind. How attentive and affectionate they were, not just with him but with each other. There was never a baseball game missed, never a wedding anniversary forgotten. And they loved Rachel, too. Really liked Rachel.

“So you don’t get along with your family? Sorry. That’s…” He breathes a sigh. “That’s probably rude.”

David doesn’t miss a beat. “No, not rude. I’d love to say I’m only lukewarm on them, but we’ve been through a lot of shit these past two years. Unfortunately, Alexis and I have to do annoying shit like share a hair straightener and eye liner but Dad’s sprung like...a really soft side that used to make me itchy at first but I see where he’s coming from. Sometimes.”

“So it’s better here? As opposed to being on your own?”

“Well, there’s way less shit to deal with. I get my own room, so I get to keep my aesthetic. It’s a whole ordeal trying to run a business on your own.”

“I can imagine. I majored in business.”

“That’s nice,” David says, and turns away for just a moment to pick up more ink. “I dropped out,” he says indifferently. 

Patrick wonders for a moment what David would have studied. Liberal arts. Interior design. Fashion merchandising. Art history.

“But I really can’t put all the blame on my parents,” David says, changing the subject. “Turns out I was really awful at numbers and math and...yeah, basically anything numbers and math.”

This makes Patrick laugh. Just a small little laugh, because he really shouldn’t move. “I like math.”

“Well, you’re a gift to the world,” David says, and it’s an off handed comment but Patrick still lets it fill his chest, lets it send warm flutters through his stomach.

“I mean,” David continues. “By the same token, I guess my dad’s business manager wasn’t that great at numbers either. Or honesty. Or you know...not breaking the law.”

“What a piece of shit,” Patrick says.

“You’re telling me.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Just the scratch of the needle against Patrick’s skin. He tries to track where David’s at in the process. Not because its uncomfortable—even though it is—but because he’s eager to know how it's turning out.

The song changes, and he doesn’t recognize this one either but it has a nice tempo. He likes the lyrics.

_ I move forward like the seasons. _

He wants to remember that one. Look it up later. Figure it out on the guitar.

“God, I fucking miss it,” David sighs, breaking Patrick’s reverie. When he looks over, he’s facing away again, exchanging colors. “There’s nothing like seeing something you love flourish.”

Patrick’s chest twinges, in that warm, happy way while he watches him work. It's a little inexplicable. “I think you’re right.”

Quiet again, and then…

“So what do you do for a living, Patrick? You can’t have visible tattoos. I’m guessing you’re a teacher. Not totally un-sexy, just so you know.”

There’s a little wiggle of dark eyebrows before he ducks back into his work.

Heat flares up the back of Patrick’s neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. He hopes David can’t tell. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches David grinning. He can definitely tell.

“I-I’m an actuary,” he chokes out.

“Hmm. And what exactly…is that?” 

“I...assess risk,” he decides, is a simple enough definition. “How probable certain events are, how that can affect a business, and how to reduce the negative impacts of those events.”

“Like an astrologist.” 

Patrick laughs. “Sure.”

The needle goes deep. David’s hand tightens over his arm.

“I once saw this astrologist who would curate a personal prediction for you based on your heart rate patterns throughout the moon cycle. Apparently that expense is not ‘essential’ according to my father.”

“So you are relegated to free predictions like the rest of us lowly serfs?”

“I pick and choose my own now,” he says, and Patrick grins full on.

“And what do they say?”

“Um, well one suggested I avoid chocolate cake should I encounter it, so obviously they don’t know me at all.”

Patrick laughs and finds that the needle is gentler now. He swears he feels David’s gloved thumb brush gently over the inside of his elbow. 

“And the other said that many paths would be converging for me today.”

“Today specifically?” Patrick angles his chin down, catching a glimpse of David out of the corner of his eye, and the brilliant blue ink now knit into his skin.

“Well, this month. But I just feel like it's today.”

David stops and looks up to meet him. Though his lips are pressed tight together, his smile is open and sure. His eyes twinkle under the bright white work light. 

“Lucky you,” Patrick breathes.

It takes everything he has not to lean in right then.

David, with an actual job to do, looks down at his work, considering. “I’d say we’ve got another thirty minutes. You ok?”

Patrick nods, and they go back to it. 

The music from David’s little speakers thumps and sometimes purrs. Patrick stays steady. David stays focused. Until finally he gives it one last pat with a clean paper towel and declares it finished.

Patrick watches himself go breathless in the mirror when he takes a look. David’s looking too.

He’s still taking it in when David tapes a layer of cling wrap to his arm.

“Be gentle with it,” David says, voice soft and low again. “Aquaphor, the baby kind. And clean it gently with soap and water until it heals.”

He nods, and turns to find his shirt while David moves away to clean up.

Metal music is still groaning through the other half of the shop when they emerge. David touches his good shoulder as he passes to lead him to the counter.

He’s not bothering to hide his expression, still wearing that lazy, hazy smile even as he picks around Stevie and the clutter on the desk.

Patrick pays. Stevie smirks.

David holds out a business card.

“You know what they say,” David claims. “It's an addiction.”

“Do they say that?”

Daivd nods with enthusiasm, fingers twisting together in front of him, rings shining. “Especially when I’m the artist.”

There’s a cell phone number on the card, Patrick notices, scrawled on the back in inelegant handwriting.

He gazes at it, then grins up at David.

“Is this a seven or a two?”

He flips the card to show them.

David’s hands flail. 

“That’s…” He points vaguely. “That’s a two. Thanks.”

Stevie bites her lip and snorts audibly.

“Got it. Just wanted to be sure. Stevie, nice to meet you. David…” He tucks the card into the back pocket of his jeans. “Thank you.”

The bell jingles again when he leaves.

He thinks he can hear Stevie’s loud, discordant chortling as the door closes behind him, and then David’s defensive “don’t do that!”

It doesn’t come to him until later, until he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror in his tiny studio apartment looking at the beautiful artistry grafted into his skin.

He realizes that this time, feeling this way—happy and seen and himself—doesn’t have to end.

He doesn’t have to bother with wondering for once.


	2. butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butterflies - Kacey Musgraves

There’s consequences to tattoos, he learns. 

In a short sleeved shirt, it’s still visible.

He mows the grass for his parents the Saturday after. Not because they’ve asked, but because he knows they appreciate it. And because it’s one of those monotonous things he doesn’t mind doing if it helps them out and if it means he can have half an hour alone to think. He finds his thoughts are much more focused, which is a great thing. A relief really. Only now, instead of listlessness, he’s thinking about the photo that had come through at eleven in the morning yesterday when he’d been at his desk.

A picture of David, brows-up only and framed in white sheets, hair askew.

_ I don’t exist before 11am,  _ his message read. A reply to Patrick’s 7:00 a.m.  _ Good Morning. _

They’ve been texting. It’s very nice.

He’s got that sleepy, off-the-cuff image burned into his mind now. It follows him while he pushes the mower through the yard. His dad works under the hood of the Jeep in the garage. The mid-morning air is cool and breezy. Sun plays in the trees and glows gold down the driveway, and it's kind of picturesque like any typical Saturday morning he remembers as a kid.

His mom is plating three turkey sandwiches when he goes inside to grab a glass of water.

“Looks good, thanks Mom.”

“Thank you for coming by and mowing the grass,” she says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You guys get a good deal these days. I don’t even ask for twenty bucks anymore.”

Marcy laughs, a maternal hum.

He fills a glass from the dispenser on the door of the fridge. “So how’s business?”

“Oh, it’s doing well. There haven’t been very many opportunities as of late, but we’re still doing well. Did you know they’re putting on a cheese festival next weekend?” 

“Cheese festival?” Patrick leans against the counter. “That’s a new one.”

Marcy laughs while she slices tomato. “Isn’t it? The things they come up with these days.”

His mom and a friend from her book club, Martia, had decided to start a little business a few years back, selling scarves and hats and little trivets they’d knitted themselves. It was a hobby at first, just something on the side for fun, but they’d been quite successful. They often set up at local festivals and craft fairs and had recently gotten into pouring homemade candles. They still talked about it like it was a hobby.  _ Marcy and Martia _ , they were called.

Patrick was happy it gave his mom something to do and be excited about. His parents had always been active, informed, involved. He was glad they kept it up after he’d left the nest. He never had to worry. 

“Are you going to have a booth?”

“Oh, no, not at this one. Your father has an appointment in the city that day. Martia thinks she can manage it herself, but I wouldn’t want her to have to do that on her own. No, we’ll pick it back up again at the Maple Fest in September.”

Patrick nods, sips his water, watches her add the finishing touches to their lunch. He reaches over to steal a few grapes.

She swats at his hands. “Oh you sneaky…”

And then...

“Patrick Keith Brewer, what in the world?” she exclaims, half laughter, pushing up his sleeve. 

“Oh, heh…that. Forgot to tell you about that one.” 

His palm goes clammy around his glass—because, really, he hadn’t planned on telling her—but he lets her look.

“When did this happen?” She grins, still observing, still puzzling through the idea, a little stunned.

“Last weekend, actually. Still not healed yet, so…”

She huffs a little laugh of...disbelief...uncertainty? 

“Its nice,” she says finally. “I’m surprised you sat through that. Good surprised,” she clarifies.

“Sat through what?” His dad rounds the corner through the open patio doors, bringing the scent of motor oil with him.

“Our son’s turning into a little punk,” Marcy jokes, and moves so that Clint can what’s scrawled forever into Patrick’s shoulder.

Clint just nods with interest, observing it like a man of his age would stop to linger at a painting in a museum.

He whistles. “Holy smokes."

“Where’s my sweet boy gone?” Marcy says teasingly and pats his sleeve back into place.

“Don’t worry.” Patrick kisses her cheek and reaches over to grab his plate from the counter to head for the table. “I’m still your sweet boy.”

-

Patrick Brewer was a man of action. He didn’t like to let things wait or pile up. In most instances, he got an idea and just had to run with it. 

It was who he was.

Mostly, it was a good thing. He was responsible. Followed through. Was level headed and observant.

But if there was one thing high school baseball had taught him, it was that a person’s greatest strength could sometimes turn into their greatest weakness.

And this was exactly how he ended up ordering a full-on chocolate cake from a fancy Toronto bakery on a Monday morning and had it delivered to someone who he’d only met once and thought was very cute. Someone who had, after all, given his direct phone number, and had, in Patrick’s defense, texted him that very same morning to ask how his tattoo was faring. 

So was it really such a bad thing that he’d definitely remembered David mentioning that silly horoscope and just really couldn’t pass up a good joke? If it meant he could just poke a little fun and hopefully, maybe, get to see the way Daivd’s hands fluttered, the way his voice pitched in embarrassment. Because those things were really cute and he definitely wanted to see them again.

He was so fucked.

He goes about his day at the office like everything’s normal. He prepares a report. He has a quick, productive meeting. When he returns to his desk to gather his lunchbox, he has a text message:

_ What the hell…? _

Its accompanied with a picture of an enormous chocolate cake with white chocolate swirled across the top.

He grins. 

_ I’m sorry, do I hear a complaint? _

Another text comes, just a picture this time, of the same cake with quite a large slice missing.

After work, he decides to call. It's been a week and they haven’t talked on the actual phone. Just texting. He can’t even wait until he’s pulled out of the parking garage to do it. To find out how David’s voice sounds through the tiny speaker.

It’s adorable.

“Hello?” 

“How’s the cake?”

There’s a nearly inaudible chuckle and a shift. “Your spontaneous, delectable, occasion-less cake is quite nice, thank you.”

“I just thought it’d be interesting to challenge your horoscope. Tempt fate. See what happens.”

David’s laugh bubbles bright on the other end.

“So daring.”

“Mm.” Patrick lets himself smile in the tiny, dark confines of his car. He doesn’t even have to think about his next question. “And does your horoscope also caution against first dates?”

First. As if there’s an intended follow up already.

David clears his throat. “Uh, nothing that I remember...reading about. Specifically.”

“Oh. That’s disappointing. Well maybe next month.”

David sputters, a tumble of “ums” and “ughs” until Patrick laughs over him.

“I’m kidding, David. Can I…Can I take you out this weekend?”

He grips at the steering wheel.

Saying it out loud makes his stomach flutter in an entirely different way than just  _ wanting  _ it.

“Oh. Um. Ok.” David’s whisper crackles.

He breathes a sigh. “Great. Does Saturday work?”

“Um… Well, Saturday’s actually my busiest day of the week.”

“Oh, right, that makes sense. Sunday?”

“Sunday works.”

He drums his fingers against the wheel and smiles. 

“Sunday it is.”

“Great.” There’s a long beat of silence. He doesn’t mind. Doesn’t want to be the one to break it.

“See you then, Patrick.” David’s voice is low. Dreamy. Content.

“See you then. David.”

-

David texts him an address to a fancy highrise downtown. Patrick puzzles as he pulls up to the guest parking area.

The Roses had lost everything.

Were they able to keep this? Did David live alone or did they all have to live here together now?

When he’d sent the address, David had insisted Patrick wait for him in the car, and he does. Sort of.

He waits  _ at  _ the car, leaned against the trunk of his Camry that’s bound on either side by a Tesla and a Ferrari. These are the  _ guests,  _ he thinks. Wild.

He isn’t waiting long before David breezes into view, rounding the corner from the elevators wearing white-framed sunglasses and a black sweater with a huge white lightning bolt shape knit across it. David looks...snug, cozy. Comfortable, but no less dashing, marching over in sneakers that look like Chucks but probably are ten times the price of Chucks. The sweater masks the tattoos Patrick knows are underneath, and it takes him aback for a moment.

He’s different. Not bad. Far from bad. Different. Good different. Deliciously different.

David pulls off his sunglasses as he nears and plants a hand next to Patrick, standing close. Close enough to for Patrick to smell that pine-in-snow smell.

“Hi.”

“Hi. You look nice. You’re wearing a sweater,” he observes, not really a question but maybe.

“Is that ok?” David asks with a smirk that says he doesn’t really care if it isn’t.

“No. I mean...yeah! It's great. It’s really nice. I just enjoyed…” Patrick goes sheepish, ducks his chin, but not before letting his eyes roll over David’s outfit one more time.

David sways a little, understanding his meaning, and leans close to Patrick, his smile a tiny, teasing knot. “I can be a nice boy when I want to be.”

Patrick’s ears go pink. 

That's one way to start off a first date at two in the afternoon in a cold parking garage next to Patrick’s ugly car surrounded by luxury sports vehicles.

Was this some kind of weird fever dream or the best day of his life?

“So where are we going?” David asks when they’re in the car.

Patrick has to catch his breath.

“Are you hungry?”

David turns to him, dark eyebrows high above his white frames. “We’ve met, right?"

Patrick laughs out loud, a little giddy, a little bit of nerves, and it feels so, so nice to just...laugh with someone like this. 

“Ok. So...there’s apparently a cheese festival happening. Food trucks, all kinds of different cheeses and wines. I thought maybe...It's really silly, I guess, but…”

David gapes. “I’m sorry… You said a….  _ Cheese festival?” _

“Uh, yeah. The weather’s so nice today. And I thought it might be something dumb to do and we can make fun of…” He backpedals just a little in case this sound absolutely atrocious and they’re about to be done already. “Unless you’re dairy-free or something?”

“I fucking love cheese,” David says emphatically, almost punctuating each word.

“Oh.” He laughs again, heat crawling up his neck. “That’s good.”

“And for future reference… I don’t have any big dietary restrictions. Your cake was definitely not dairy free.”

“Right.”

“Although I did recently discover I’m allergic to pitted fruits.”

“This sounds like a story.”

And so David tells it, while they drive. 

He decides he loves the sound of David’s voice. He likes having David in his passenger seat. He likes David, if his constant smile is any indication.

Sunlight spills into the car, ethereal and bright, cut with trees as they near the edges of town. Every time David waves a hand, the silver of his rings gleams in the light. Patrick catches it from the corner of his eye. 

“I mean, how was I supposed to know blackberries count at pitted fruits? Did you know that?”

“I didn’t. I’ll make a note not to bring you to any blackberry festivals.”

The festival is set up in an empty lot, a concrete plain of food trucks crammed together in surprisingly neat rows. It’s too early for them to be lit yet, but strings of round patio lights line the aisles in a guiding crisscross.

David’s grinning and practically bouncing at his side while Patrick pays for their tickets. 

They walk awhile, scoping out places they’d like to try. There isn’t just food. There’s a section of local products and crafts that David surveys with interest.

They finally make a decision on the first course, and David goes straight for the kill: a mini charcuterie with a trio of cheeses, olives, and pickles, topped with an herb vinaigrette. 

They find a table to sit and eat.

“Oh my god, I might cry.” David swoons, popping an olive into his mouth. “This was an amazing decision. Thank you for bringing me here.”

Patrick’s heart flutters over his mac and cheese. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”

“Having fun? I’m euphoric. This definitely beats helping Alexis wash her extensions.”

Patrick snorts. “Were those your plans otherwise?”

David waves a slice of Pecorino. “That and doing a little drawing.”

“I'd like to see your drawings.”

“You’ve got one. Forever. No backing out now.”

“Guess not.” He says, and watches David a moment longer, happily munching his cheese and olives, sun in his dark hair, snug in his sweater.

It feels...right.

-

Their fingers brush while they’re in line for fresh-made mozzarella sticks. Without looking, David reaches out to thread his fingers through Patrick’s.

-

After cheesey bread and cheese fritters, they get drinks. Patrick has a craft beer and David has fresh sangria. No blackberries. He checks. 

They walk the aisles, hand in hand.

“How long has your family been in Toronto?” Patrick asks. 

“Well...before...” 

Patrick notices how David delineates the segments of his life like this.

“...we had a mansion in Vancouver. That was the first to go. The rest of our stuff went along with it. Dad just had the place here for business trips, and it was the only place we were allowed to keep. I actually lived in New York at the time. That got taken, along with the shop, and I had to move home.”

Patrick glances up at him, swings their hands a bit. “I’m not asking about your money, David.”

David looks over. He has his sunglasses hooked over the neck of his sweater now. The wind has blown his hair out of its perfectly swept state. 

“Oh. I’m just used to people...nettling me for all the dark, juicy details,” he says lowly, looking over to survey a table of homemade lotions and soaps as they pass.

“You and your family live together?”

“Regrettably. Its cramped, but I mean, it could be worse. We could be living in a fucking motel or some other godforsaken place. And at least I know where Alexis is, most nights. She can’t just...float off who knows where anymore.”

Patrick thinks. He’s an only child. He’s always liked that. But a sibling would’ve been nice. 

“So Patrick, you have...parents.” David observes. “What...what do they do?”

“My mom’s retired now, but she used to be a librarian. She has a small business to keep her busy now, and my dad’s an accountant.”

“Wow. A family of smarties.”

“Yes, we’re very intellectual. At Christmas, we gift each other shares of stock.”

“Mm.” David nods, playfully patronizing. “Remind me to make plans in December.”

Patrick walks a little closer to his side.

-

They’re back at their table with a second beer, a second cup of sangria, David’s sunglasses, and a half-finished piece of cheesecake between them.

The sun is dipping low, the afternoon slipping away.

Conversation has lulled, but comfortably. They’re both stuffed with heavy carnival food. 

They’ve been holding hands already and they’ve had a bit to drink so...

Patrick reaches over, draws his fingers up from David’s pinky to his wrist, inching the sleeve of his sweater up just a bit until he can see orange petals.

He tilts his chin, looks up at David.

The sky’s going dim with dusk. Vivid and painterly. Under the light of it and the strings of lights overhead, David is beautiful. 

He’s fiddling with the last bites on the plate, smiling secretly.

“I’m having a very nice time,” he says softly. 

It looks like there’s more, so Patrick waits.

“No one’s ever…” He shrugs, shakes his head. “Shown me a nice time before and…”

His eyes flick upwards, towards the round bulbs in the string lights, glinting, even as he huffs a laugh at himself. “God, now I sound like we should be at a sock hop or something and you have to get me home before eight.”

Patrick smiles, big, and feels it all the way to his toes.

“I hope not,” he says. “The eight o’clock part. Maybe the sock hop part, too.”

He grimaces playfully. David chuckles.

The tips of his fingers are still tucked under David’s sleeve, tracing lightly at shapes he can’t see but knows are there.

“I do have to work tomorrow, though.”

David smiles. “You should get tattoo shop hours. One to ten.”

“I’ll just suggest that to my boss first thing tomorrow,” he jokes and David laughs and twists so they’re holding hands again.

Patrick wants to kiss the little moon-shaped dimple that appears in his cheek.

-

They hold hands all the way back to the car. Over the console, all the way back to the glittering high rise that David claims is small and cramped and temporary. 

They don’t get out of the car immediately.

“This was a very fun afternoon,” David says, heartfelt.

“I’m really glad you had fun.”

“Mhm. Very different from any date I’ve had before.”

“Good different?”

David nods, a slow bob of his head. His eyes shine. 

“Mhm. Very good.”

Patrick smiles and twists to get out of the car first. He glances over his shoulder briefly to catch the confused expression on David’s face, and then he’s scrambling out after him.

They lock eyes over the roof of the Camry.

“What are you doing?” David breathes. Somehow it still echoes in the cold cavern of the garage.

“Walking you to the door.”

David gapes, mouth a soft ‘o’, tender and touched but trying to look anything but. “Uh. You don’t have to do that.” His voice is still quiet.

“Oh, I think I do,” Patrick replies, smirking like the shit that he knows he is.

David leads the way to the elevators, tentative and tiptoeing. Patrick is a step behind, grinning to himself with his hands in his pockets.

“Its probably a mess. Alexis is such a slob. And they’re probably not even home,” David protests weakly while Patrick steps aside to let him on the elevator first. He pushes the button for the penthouse.

“Don’t want me to see where you live,  _ Pretty in Pink _ ?” Patrick teases.

David’s face flames deliciously, and Patrick could end the fun here and feel successful.

He coughs a shocked laugh, but recovers like a champ.

“While pink is not my color, I’ll accept the compliment and your astute reference to an eighties cult classic.”

Patrick smiles and leans next to him on the handrail that runs across the back of the elevator car, pinkies touching.

At the top floor, David leads him down a clean but dimly lit hallway of doors. He stops at 2201.

“Well I had such a great time. Thanks for everything. G’night,” David rushes out and slides his key into the lock.

Patrick reaches to touch his elbow.

David turns back to him. In the low light, his eyes are warm chocolate brown. Dark lashes and the little mole on his chin.

He looks for a cue. David steps a little closer.

David’s lips are soft, rich, indulgent against his own. His hand finds Patrick’s cheek and presses in, kissing back. 

He has the strangest sense of something unfurling, blooming, aching all at the same time, starting at his heart and reaching out.

When they part, David’s smile is that tiny, sideways thing, his eyes twinkling and crinkled.

Patrick’s smiles, just to himself, still thrumming, then meets David’s gaze.

“That was a first,” he says, surprised at how present his voice is when his lips still tingle.

David catches his meaning. He smiles, shy and flattered and coy all at once.

“Was it?”

Patrick ducks his chin, bashful, working his lips to savor the sensation, to write it into his mind.

“A good first?" David asks. Not conceited. Just checking. His hand brushes the back of Patrick’s arm, over the blue Oxford of his button down.

Patrick nods, still a little dazed.

"A very good first.”

They stand there, just in the moment.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” Patrick asks finally, a bit more himself. 

He has things to think about. Things to reflect on. Things he wants to be sure he remembers.

David nods, sincere, and then seems to bubble over sweetly, shaking his head. “We can talk whenever you’d like.”

Patrick’s hand brushes David’s sleeve. He imagines flower petals.

“Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

He hears the door open and close behind him while he walks back to the elevators, hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t think he stops smiling the whole way down.

-

_ David [11:17am]: So Alexis definitely asked me 200 questions about my date. Don’t know when she started to care so much. _

_ Patrick [11:23am]: It’s nice that she does. _

_ David [11:37am]: Ugh. Sure. _

_ David [12:52pm]: I miss that merlot-infused cheddar so much. _

_ David [12:55pm]: And God, the crystallization in that Parmesan... _

_ David [12:59pm]: I’m glad I got to kiss you.  _

_ Patrick [1:07pm]: Me too. _

_ Patrick [1:10pm]: I want to see you again. _

_ David [1:15pm]: Then why don’t you? _

_ Patrick [1:48pm]: Friday night? _

_ David [1:52m]: ;) _

-

Tuesday night, Patrick goes to dinner at his parents’ house.

He hadn’t really wanted to, but he hated to cancel last minute and potentially disappoint them. He can’t remember the last time his parents were disappointed, doesn’t think they ever have been. But lately, he feels like he can’t escape the nearness of that reality. Its inevitable, one way or another. He should avoid it as long as he can.

“Martia mentioned that she saw you at the festival on Sunday. With a friend. That’s nice.”

She goes on chopping greens for the salad. 

Patrick’s stomach rolls.

“Oh,” he manages. “I… I thought you said you guys wouldn’t have a booth.”

Then it comes to him. He and David were holding hands. 

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

His mom’s still talking, but it's like she’s far away, underwater. Cloudy.

“Oh, we weren’t but her husband offered to help and so she decided to at the last minute. Good thing, because she sold a ton!”

He doesn’t say anything. Just pushes the potatoes around in the skillet.

“Is this a new friend? I don’t remember you mentioning anyone.”

A friend. A friend. 

A friend.

“Um.” The words stick in his throat. “Yeah, a friend. I…”

They’re here, making dinner like it's any other day, just him and his mom. The moment has been handed to him, but he just can’t make it happen. His nose tingles with the threat of tears.

“Honey? Are you ok?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut.

He can hear it in her voice. The placation. The tentativeness. 

The way its been ever since Rachel.

It's getting so hard to keep doing this.

Dodging questions, making up stories, lying but convincing himself it's just a small thing. That this feeling isn’t valid. The same thing he’s done for years.

He’s let it pile up. 

He’s been so brave in the past few days. He’s done about a dozen things he thought he never would have the courage or the opportunity to do. He’s proud.

He thinks about the way it felt. The way he’d felt with David, holding hands through rows of food trucks under twinkling string lights. The way David’s smile was so, so big. So big that sometimes, David seemed to hold it back, tucked tight to the corner of his mouth because the world just couldn’t handle it. He thought of the way his laugh was so charming and their conversation so easy and the way he looked when he was being teased.

It feels like nothing else ever has. 

His voice trembles.

“Mom…”

The sound of the back door opening startles him silent. 

His dad walks in, keys clattering to the counter and his bag dropping on a bar stool, and Marcy’s near him now, asking about his day. A knot works itself tight, tight at the back of Patrick’s throat. 

It hangs on all through dinner, coiling and clawing while his dad talks about the Jays game and fantasy hockey standings. Mom keeps glancing his way, and he just can’t handle it. He stands from the table when everyone else has empty plates and he’s hardly touched his.

Afterwards, when the dishes are washed and dried, he sits with his dad on the couch, hockey highlights on TV. Jerseys flash and the commentary lulls on, but he hardly listens.

He feels like he doesn’t belong here anymore. Like he’s an intruder in the very house he grew up in.

From over the back of the couch, he suddenly feels his mom’s hand on his shoulder. She presses a kiss to the crown of his head, and lingers for a moment, thumb stroking soothingly before she goes to sit next to his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys convinced me. Also I convinced me, because I love these two. Weird things in AUs just really work in this universe somehow. Cheese festivals and big chocolate cake "to get you to talk to me" presents. Its silly, but I hoped you liked it. And I hope it didn't end up too sad. I didn't know it was going to be sad. There's a happy ending, I promise.


	3. crashing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For morale. Also because its my birthday. 
> 
> I went back and fit song titles to the chapters using songs I listened to a lot while writing. 
> 
> Also please notice the upped chapter count :)
> 
> //
> 
> Song: Crashing - Illenium

On Friday, they have sushi—David’s choice—a few blocks away from the Roses’ apartment building. He needs to clean his palette, he says, after all that cheese.

David tries to hide his surprise behind his menu when Patrick orders without having to ask any questions. 

“Didn’t think I was a sushi guy, huh?” Patrick teases.

David is wrapped up again in another black sweater with just one half of a shining silver zipper running horizontally across the chest. It’s clear that it’s purely ornamental, and usually Patrick would feel the need to joke about how frivolous it is. But his gaze, intent and intrigued, keeps falling to that silver line with its tiny gleaming teeth.

“It’s just that Japan is my favorite place on Earth,” David says, frankly. “And it might’ve been a major turn on?” 

A wry smile works its way up into the corner of his mouth. Patrick wants to see what it takes to pull it free. 

“Now this is a skill I’ve never mastered,” he says once they have their food and he watches David effortlessly pinch a piece of sashimi from his plate with chopsticks.

“Mm, it's super complicated.” David shakes his head despondently. “Took years of practice to master.”

“Private lessons?”

“Mm-hm.”

“That explains why your technique is so good.”

“Well, it's all in the wrist.”

Patrick laughs, that easy feeling falling back in place. Just the ease of laughing, relating to someone. His leg bumps David’s under the table, and he lets his knee rest there, between David’s, like it's an accident. David’s eyes glint over his sushi.

Patrick catches the waiter’s attention as he passes to ask for a fork, which somehow they don’t provide. He settles on a pair of children’s chopsticks which are aided by a bit of plastic like a pencil topper, in the shape of a panda, holding the sticks together.

“Is it weird that this is also a major turn on?” Daivd points his own chopsticks Patrick’s way. 

Patrick tries to look put out. “I’m feeling a little upstaged. David. I put on a suit jacket and everything.”

“The sticks are his legs,” David observes with mocking worry. He squints. “Is that a little barbaric?”

“No. He’s cute. I like him,” Patrick says. It's meant to be offhanded, but his eyes flick up to catch David’s. 

The smile is working looser. 

-

The streetlights pull out the details in the hardware of David’s leather jacket, the four silver rings on his right hand, his dimples. They’re both warm with hot saké and walking—tripping their way—back to David’s building, arm in arm. 

At Patrick’s car, David clears his throat and slips away, stands at a healthy distance, twists habitually at his rings. It's like the clock has struck midnight and the spell has been broken.

Patrick jingles the keys in his pocket, scuffs the toe of his shoe into the parking garage concrete.

“Hey. Do you…” David says suddenly. Patrick looks up.

“Do you… maybe want some ice cream?” David’s teeth are set in a kind of nervous grimace. He’s still twisting at his rings.. “It's just… I think I really want some? And nobody’s home right now. My mom and dad are out, and Alexis is somewhere in the suburbs with her...vet guy…” He waves a hand, sets his hip, gives a big sigh, like this entire explanation is exhausting and in the way of what he’s trying to say. “So it's a no pressure situation. If you wanted to have some. Too.”

He catches on. David’s about as eager for this to end as he is. Even if it's under the thin and simplistic guise of ice cream.

Patrick is sure his eyes twinkle, and he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Sure. Yeah, that would be nice.”

The elevator ride up to David’s floor is perfectly tame. They stand close, but keep their hands to themselves. 

Patrick can’t stop grinning.

David takes his coat and hangs up his own at the door.

The penthouse is not modest or cramped like David had implied. Not to Patrick’s mind, anyways. The space is open and bright and fitted with furniture that Patrick could only describe as nice and tasteful and probably custom. There’s big windows that provide a nice view of the city. The kitchen is not decorated with roosters and aluminums and an antique fan from a windmill like his mom’s own kitchen. There’s nothing more than is necessary and honestly, it looks like it isn’t used much, or at least not extensively. Patrick assumes most meals are taken out, or simple like coffee or bacon and eggs. He wonders vaguely if they’ve ever had a chef. They must have had. 

David pulls open the freezer, which is built to match the cream colored cabinets. He ducks inside and reappears with a container of ice cream, as promised.

“This one has a caramel swirl in it with toffee pieces? It's the only one we have since Alexis ate all the cookie dough one, even though she says she’s cutting back on dairy. Whatever.”

Patrick smiles at David’s eye roll.

“That sounds great,” he assures him, and they’re quiet again. He stands there, useless, hands at his side—custom marble countertops are probably not for leaning against.

While David dishes out the ice cream, Patrick notices a spot of ink he hasn’t before. On the side of David’s right hand, scrawled between his pinky and his wrist. Delicate script that moves smooth and elegant as he works.

“Who’s Adelina?”

David glances up, sobered, and Patrick fears he’s touched on something too sensitive. 

“Um. She was our nanny.” David deposits a full scoop into his bowl. “She was a really… big part of our childhood.”

Patrick blinks away. The edge of David’s voice doesn’t invite follow up.

“She retired to Buenos Aires with her daughter when Alexis turned eighteen,” he goes on, finally, lightheartedly. “I mean, Alexis had technically been out of the house since fifteen, and we’d both been in boarding school since middle school, but she… she really liked our family, and Dad kept her on as our housekeeper. She always wanted to move home, though. Talked about it alot. She really missed her own children.”

David turns away for a few moments, putting away the ice cream, tidying the counter, giving Patrick just enough time to think there may be more stories like this, of a little David, of someone who knew him well, loved him well, brought him up. And left. 

David presses a bowl into his hands.

“We can eat in my room.”

He promptly leads Patrick through the living room and down a hallway floored with black and white marble tile, to the door at the very end. He takes Patrick’s bowl with his own and sets them both on a table that is home to one singular, empty vase. 

“I don’t allow shoes in my room,” he says pointedly, 

“Oh. Ok.” Patrick grins, thinking up a thousand quick remarks already. 

David spares a few seconds to grin back, his a little more cheeky, a little more appraising, before he hums and bends down by the door to untie his high tops. 

“Have you seen  _ Uptown Girls _ ?” Patrick says, kneeling beside him to pull off the only pair of dress shoes he owned.

“Again, I take no offense to your taunting movie references, because shoes in the bedroom  _ are _ incorrect, and Dakota Fanning and Brittany Murphy are both treasures. But I appreciate your knowledge of obscure, underrated rom-coms. It's very reassuring.”

His stomach swoops at that, for some reason. That there’s something David should be reassured about. He wants to ask what it is, but instead he cops a smile.

“No shoes in the bedroom. Fair enough. But ice cream is ok?”

David doesn’t skip a beat. “Ice cream is an exception, mostly because you’re here.”

Patrick straightens up, watches David place his sneakers next to his own plain brown Oxfords, expensive black marble under his feet. He blinks innocently, incorrigibly, up at David.

“But how do I know your carpet is clean?”

David gives a proud smirk before opening the bedroom door, revealing a room with a wide floor to ceiling window, city lights twinkling outside of it. Pristine, plush carpet that’s almost pure white. A big bed with a clean white comforter, wrinkle free. A few pieces of abstract, minimalistic art hang on the walls, but not much at all. In fact, Patrick is sure one painting is merely composed of white squares on an off-white background. 

A dark wood and wrought iron table is set by the window, laden with five potted plants, no two alike, a spot of color and life. 

A full length mirror in the corner. A small desk set with a MacBook, positioned precisely square with the edge. A small, curated selection of books. 

Everything has its place. Everything is just so. 

The carpet is thick and soft under Patrick’s value pack socks.

David presses Patrick’s bowl back into his hand. He’s a little breathless now, but not enough to let the joke die.

“Where’s your plastic tea set?”

David throws his first  _ over-your-shit  _ look over his shoulder, but Patrick sees him smile at the last second.

“Are you sure we can eat in here?” he asks, more seriously, after surveying the room one more time.

David hums a laugh, turning to shut the door. “You’re so cute. All nervous and worried like a kid at a sleepover, not that I’d really know what that’s like. It’s my room, I say it’s fine.”

David perches on the edge of the bed. Patrick follows suit.

They dig into their ice cream in easy silence. Just the clink of spoons.

It was just ice cream. Just ice cream, with enough ease about it to leave room for teasing. He’s never come up to someone’s place before. Hadn’t had the opportunity. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Patrick says after a few minutes.

“You can ask me anything.”

He tries not to feel flustered by that, tries not to check David’s expression in his peripheral.

“It isn’t...it isn’t exactly...a normal date question. I just…” He huffs an uncomfortable laugh and swallows. “I don’t know who else to ask.”

“Ok.” David’s spoon clinks against his bowl. “Go ahead.”

“How did you… Well… How did you come out to your parents?”

David clears his throat. “Mhm, not a normal date question.”

“Sorry.”

“No, that's ok. It's important.”

David shifts against the sheets, expression sober as he balances his bowl and crosses his legs under himself. “I just brought a couple home one day in college and told them to deal with it. Which was maybe a little dramatic on my part because they did… just deal with it. Never batted an eye.”

“A couple?”

“I like the wine and not the label,” David says, quick, not really meeting Patrick’s eyes. It’s something he’s recited before, something that he’s wrapped in self-deprecation and sarcasm.

“I… I like everyone,” he goes on, softer this time, when Patrick doesn’t look away. “Regardless of their gender or how they identify. I just like people. Which… now that I’m saying it that way… sounds very strange. For me. But nevertheless.”

Patrick just nods. He’s quiet, considering this, pushing the ice cream around his bowl.

There’s so many things he doesn’t know yet. So many social practices and interactions and designators. Can he own it if he doesn’t understand it all yet? Will they welcome him into that world if he’s still learning? And how is he supposed to learn? Apart from the minor crisis of coming out to his parents, and the major crisis of the dissolution of his engagement, he’s felt totally  _ himself  _ ever since. SInce he decided this was a part of his life he could no longer ignore. Needed to have. 

It's just him. It's still him. He wants other people to feel like that too. Without pressure, without people making mistakes and tiptoeing around. 

“Regrets?”

He looks up and finds David’s uneasy grin. Like he’s been here before. Like he expects it. Patrick’s chest twinges.

It isn’t the direction he meant the conversation to go, it isn’t what had really been on his mind, but it's the conversation they’re having now, and it's the conversation he wants to finish.

“Why would I have regrets?”

“Its just that most people find that challenging. Intimidating.” David looks down at his bowl and fidgets his spoon. “Useful.”

Patrick is quiet.

He’s guessed at David’s history—he’s not sure if one would call it a romantic history, necessarily. He knows David has been burned in so many ways, but from the very beginning, he seemed so sure of himself. The way he treated his work, the way he dressed, the artistry he carried in his skin for everyone to see—whenever he wanted them to see, at least. It hadn’t really occurred to Patrick until now that maybe all those things were a mask. An attempt. A presentation of the safe parts that he could hide and take back whenever he wanted. Whenever they had had enough of them.

At this angle, their knees are almost touching, and Patrick shifts the extra half inch so that they do. David’s pants are some leather-like fabric, but not quite leather. A little too dull to be leather, but not Patrick’s dark blue denim. He stares for a moment, just looking at the contrast.

“David,” he starts. It’s the best way to say this, really. Exactly how he feels. Without complications. “When you kissed me… that felt like my first time.”

David’s expression pulls several different ways. Affection peeks through for the briefest of seconds before it’s covered with deflection. 

“But it was a first, though. You said.”

“No. Not like that. Like… all the things you’re supposed to feel?” He pauses, pushes everything aside so that he can say this as earnestly and concretely as he feels it. “I felt them.”

David looks up now, meets his eyes, his own positively shining and sparkling under the warm lamplight

“How are you so nice?” His voice is soft and quiet, just breath.

It's rhetorical, obviously, and something in it is a little sad. A little yearning.

Patrick gives a shrug. “That wasn’t necessarily a nice thing to say. It was true. Nice was just a bonus.”

“Lucky me.”

Patrick’s mind flashes to their first meeting, some forgotten line one of them might’ve said, but it’s nebulous now and he can’t be sure if it really happened. Any effort to conjure it is put aside when David’s eyes gleam, fall closed, beautiful dark lashes against his cheeks and then his lips are on Patrick’s. 

Those first feelings are back, this time not as terrifying. Pushing and yearning and inviting. He steadies a hand against David’s cheek.

Truth be told, they were probably both a little tangled. Tangled in misconceptions and fears and past hurts.

He wants to challenge that. With David. In dates and hot saké and leather jackets and food trucks. Ice cream and bassy pop music and steady hands making beautiful things people have forever. 

He wants as many days as it takes.

Brave enough to push past chaste this time, his tongue traces David’s bottom lip. He’s sweet like caramel swirl and toffee. He pushes his hand into David’s hair, curling his fingertips against soft, dark strands.

The world slips away when David gentles off, changes the angle, comes back even softer, like he wants to savor every bit.

His hand curls around Patrick’s neck, fingers drawing softly over skin, rings cool. He sighs the prettiest sigh Patrick’s ever heard, high and soft. Content. Patrick presses in to chase it, firmer this time, testing this feeling. 

He needs to pull away or else. His head is swimming and his stomach is soaring and it feels so good but it's nearing a threat that he knows he won’t have the resolve to shy from. 

He finally manages it after David has the last word; a soft, needy kiss that pulls everything he can offer.

He breathes, a steady exhale.

David touches his nose to his, presses close.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Patrick has to laugh. 

“Shit… Fuck. I need to calm down.” David’s voice is raw and ragged and pitched lower than usual with his self-reprimand. He leans away, traces his fingers along Patrick’s jaw, makes like he’ll press his lips to the sparse stubble there, but stops short. He sits all the way back, squares his shoulders and blinks deliberately. 

Patrick grins at the sight, catches David’s hand in his own before it can fall away.

“How come?” he asks. His finger runs a smooth path across David’s rings. 

David grins deviously, presses his lips together against the words.

“Because your mouth is too…” He pauses, amending, probably for Patrick’s sake, though he desperately wants to know what it would’ve been. “Too too much.” 

He reaches over and pats a hand against Patrick’s knee, a teasing placation at first until he’s looking away, fingers squeezing like the touch is grounding him. 

Then David stands and takes the bowl that’s somehow stayed upright in Patrick’s grip all this time, his own in his other hand. 

“So... I’m going to go get rid of these, and go get a big fucking glass of water.” The last part is his inner monologue broadcast aloud, and it makes Patrick grin, even as the door shuts behind him. 

Alone now, in David’s bedroom, he turns to survey the crisp white comforter they’ve been sitting on. He runs a hand over it, curls his fingers into it. Weeks ago, David had sent that first picture, eyebrows and up, hair wild and at all angles, right from this spot.

He swallows, closes his eyes at the memory of exactly what that innocuous image had made him feel. What he feels now. What he’s felt since that ordinary, everyday artwork on that single sheet of paper had been worked into something unique and special. 

He doesn’t know how to frame it. What to call it. Not really. Not yet. But he has an idea of what it could be.

David’s back, shutting the door and pressing his palms against it, leaning his weight against it like it’s holding back an avalanche. He smiles, all breathless and blazed.

Patrick smiles back, delighted. “Better?”

David’s lashes flutter as his eyes roll, and it’s the most beautiful sight Patrick’s ever seen—he’s got to start keeping a list—but then David’s posture goes rigid and he looks bewildered, down, towards the door knob. Patrick can’t hear it at first but then there’s woman’s voice, loud and lilting, and then a man’s, warm and a little nasally. Patrick can’t make out the conversation. A door shuts nearby and things are quiet again. 

David huffs a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Ugh, thank god.”

“Do I need to jump out the window?” Patrick whispers, lips curling into a smile. 

David looks over at him again, and the gleam is back in his eyes, as if just looking at Patrick is the most wonderful thing in the world. 

“That would be dangerous,” he whispers, pushing his weight away from the door.

“Tie your bedsheets together and make a rope?”

David sits beside him again, hands to himself this time. “That doesn’t work. Trust me. And at this height, well, you’d break more than just your clavicle.”

That’s a story. Patrick remembers to ask later. 

“Maybe you could… stay?”

Patrick blanches for a moment. “Is… that ok?”

“I said earlier this was a no pressure situation. I meant it.”

His expression is steady and sober, but then David leans forward into another slow kiss that’s full lips and a brush of tongue. “I want you to stay,” he says, low, in the non-existent space between them. “We could get brunch tomorrow. Before I go to work.”

“Ok, David,” Patrick breathes, wondering if he’s really given himself a choice at all.

David lends him a pair of black sweats that hang loose on his hips and probably cost more than should be legal for sweatpants. He keeps his undershirt, brushes his teeth with a brand new toothbrush from a stash in the cabinet. It’s odd that he has a stash, but Patrick leaves it, because intentions are clear. The whole thing is silly and informal and without implication, just like David had said.

Because truly, they’re adults here and it isn’t as if he  _ can’t  _ leave if he’d like to. The fact that David’s parents are home now pose no threat to a quiet exit if they stay behind the door of their own bedroom. On the flip side, it isn’t as if they  _ couldn’t  _ shove away sweatpants and that sleep shirt embroidered with its little red heart and just go for it. But they pull down the sheets together, flashing matching smiles at just how endearing, how spontaneous and unaffected this whole thing is, and then they’re laying side by side, arms tucked close to their own bodies, smiling at each other in the lamplight.

“This is fun. You’re fun,” David says, and Patrick knows it couldn’t be more heartfelt as he nestles his head against the pillows.

Patrick smiles, and that big blooming feeling is back. He wants to reply, but everything that comes to mind is too big, too earnest to admit right now, and only really half formed anyways.

“It’s like I’m in grade five all over again.”

David laughs, tucking his hands up under his chin and Patrick can’t help but reach out to touch his elbow, trace his bicep through the long sleeves of his navy striped tee shirt. 

“Don’t make it weird,” David says, eyes closed, all dark lashes and bright teeth. 

With the way his sleeves bunch, Patrick can see the pinks and oranges and greens ringing David's wrists.

“This is definitely the most fun I’ve ever had on a date,” Patrick agrees in a whisper.

Because this is an extension of the date, he thinks. There’s lot of clever options for dates. He just never thought a sleepover—decidedly clothed—would be one of them. And all the other dates in his limited catalog were very normal wines and dines with one woman. Any request for more spontaneity usually ended in a shouting match because he just...couldn’t. Wasn’t. 

David opens his eyes suddenly, appraises him for a moment before he reaches over, cradles Patrick’s chin with gentle fingers. He looks like he wants to say something but can’t really phrase it. 

His fingers brush Patrick’s lips, his cheek, the line of his jaw, and Patirck lets him touch with breath stuck in his chest.

His eyes land on Patrick’s lips, hold there, and Patrick buzzes with the ghost and anticipation of being kissed until David looks up, catches Patrick’s gaze. 

“Let’s go to sleep,” he says. “I can’t wait for those pancakes.”

He watches Patrick for a few more seconds, like he can’t tear his eyes away, before he twists for the nightstand behind him and taps a few fingers to the base of the bedside lamp. Patrick does the same to the one on his side and the room goes dark, but for the city lights, twinkling diffused and soft through the curtains. 

David shifts a little closer, and the night goes quiet.

-

Patrick wakes with an easy, well-rested feeling. Morning light streams through the big window, all across the pure white sheets, and he nestles in a bit, in vain. David’s not here, but the whisper of his cologne is.

Trees in snow.

A little heart embroidered on his shirt. Shy smiles. Shining rings. Chopsticks.

The sound of the doorknob turning brings him to a bit more of a sober state, but he doesn’t bother looking over.

“David, have you seen my…Oh. My, my, my.”

At the woman’s voice, Patrick bolts upright.

Red lips, the shade of old Hollywood tinged sinister, bow underneath a haircut too bleached and blunt to be natural.

“Hello there. How very strange. I was expecting my...my eldest bairn but it seems…” She slumps a hip against the doorframe, her tulled black skirt rustling. “He has an unexpected guest.”

David’s towel-ensconced head appears over her shoulder, eyes wide in horror.

“Oh my god! Mom!”

Patrick beams.

“Oh, hello, dear. You didn’t tell us you were having a little overnight expedition last night.”

She glances back over to Patrick, where he’s still sitting with the bedsheets pooled innocently around his waist wearing yesterday’s undershirt.

“Ew, why would I disclose that ever in a million years? Excuse me, please!” He wriggles past her, into the room, fresh showered and wrapped up in a fluffy white robe. 

Patrick blinks, sobered by sight of dark chest hair in the little v above the robe. 

Moira Rose invites herself further into the bedroom.

“I only came to ask if you’ve seen my pearl necklace.”

David’s gaze flickers between the two of them, open mouthed. When Patrick does nothing but grin and his mother does nothing but continue her unannounced invasion of his space, he huffs, defeated. “Which one?”

“The large pearls. The ones your father bought me in Papeete.”

“This narrows down nothing for me. Ask Alexis.” David waves a hand. “Shoo, good bye now.”

She lets herself be shooed, turning over one shoulder and extending a hand. “It was lovely to meet you…”

“Patrick,” he supplies helpfully from his spot on the bed.

“Peter,” she answers, and gets one last bright-eyed look at David before he’s shoving the door closed behind her.

“Did she hurt you? Are you ok?”

Patrick chuckles and ducks his chin. “I’m fine, David.”

“Ugh. A pirhama in couture, I swear.” David’s voice is muffled as he unwraps the towel from his hair. “What kind of insane person designs a three-bedroom luxury penthouse apartment in Toronto with  _ one  _ bathroom?”

He pokes at his hair in the full length mirror.

“Feel free to shower too, if you dare. I see now I am powerless to protect you from this little saturnalia.”

Patrick takes the challenge. The shower is big and nice with a waterfall spray. He’s confused by the array of toiletries that line the stall. None of the packaging is particularly geared to men, and when he picks one, it comes out brilliantly purple.

He gives a shrug and goes for it.

Back in his borrowed pajamas, he heads back to David’s room only to be confronted at the bathroom door by a whispy woman in a silky sleep set.

“Hi there,” she croons, wrapping a lock of long honey-blonde hair around one finger, blocking his exit from the bathroom. 

So news travels fast in this house, he thinks.

“I just...wanted to get my curling wand.” She squeezes into the doorway next to him, gives him a look that sizes him up and eats him up in one go.

“So you’re the one that took David to that like...super cute little food truck thing?” she says, making no move to pass into the bathroom. 

“Um.” Patrick has to look away. He doesn’t want his inability to stop grinning to hurt her feelings. “Yeah that’s me. Patrick.”

“Patrick,” she says, lowers her chin and bats her lashes. “Supes cute.”

No, she’s definitely just said  _ supes. _

“Just so you know,” she says. “David talks about you like… all the time.”

“He does?”

She nods eagerly. “Mhm. He goes on and on about your....” She looks, squints a little. “Your cute little nose and your tiny little eyebrows.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his smile this time.

“My eyebrows?”

“Mhm. David’s never really had someone who’s like...steady. Steady steady. You know?”

“I’ve picked up on that, a little, yes.”

“I feel like this could be a really good look for him.”

She turns back for her bedroom, giving up the ruse of retrieving her curling… whatever. 

“Oh!” she says brightly, turning towards him again, a spin of beach curls and floral perfume. “I’m Alexis, by the way.”

She does a little shimmy, almost scandalous in the little silk shorts and camisole she’s wearing. She giggles.

“I hope we keep seeing you, little sweet Pat.”

And she’s gone, twirling around the door, practically disappearing in a puff of fairy dust.

David’s dressed in a snowy white cable knit sweater and nice jeans when Patrick makes it back to the bedroom. He looks refreshed somehow, easy and comfy.

By some miracle, Patrick finds a clean change of clothes in his gym bag in his car, leaving him in a t-shirt, jeans, a hoodie, and his hiking shoes.

When he returns to the apartment, he makes it back to David’s room to change, free and clear, but when they finally head out for brunch, the other Roses are gaggled in the kitchen. 

All three of them turn in unison. 

David’s dad gestures with his coffee cup. “Hello, Johnny Rose—“

“Nope. Nope nope nope. Mmm-mmm. Not your turn,” David chants, jabbing at Patrick’s shoulders with the tips of his fingers to steer him towards the door.

“Your family’s nice,” Patrick says while they wait for the elevator.

David’s eyebrows arch high, teeth bared. “Yikes.”

Patrick chuckles under his breath and lets David onto the elevator first.

-

“Where is this place again?”

“Just a few blocks. It's very nice. It’s one of my favorite places down here.”

David has different sunglasses now, square-ish with black frames, sun shining off his dark hair, a bright beacon in his white sweater while he leads them down the city streets, marginally quieter on a Saturday.

“There.” David points.

There’s a big glassed-in patio at the front that juts out into the sidewalk, making it stand out from anything else on this street, and Patrick can’t believe he’s never noticed it before. Inside, ferns and vines line the glass like a greenhouse, like they’ve been here for ages. A few potted plants hang from the steel rafters, pink and yellow flowers bobbing happily. The sunlight throws pretty, ethereal light around the place.

“Hi, how’re we doing today? Two?” A man greets them, two menus clutched in hand. He’s older, but younger than Patrick’s dad. Forties, maybe, with stylish, tortoise shell glasses and a crisp haircut, pushed up in a perfect swoop much like David’s. He wears a plaid button down, but not like Stevie’s. This one fits, and fits close. So do his jeans.

“Yup, two, thanks,” David says.

They follow him to a table on the patio. 

“Any mimosas this morning?” the man asks.

David turns to Patrick with a smile, letting him make the choice.

“Um. I’d just prefer a tea.”

“English breakfast, lemon ginger, hibiscus or chai?”

“Ooh, hibiscus, please.” Patrick nods affirmatively.

“A caramel macchiato for me, please.”

“In the bigger mug, right? Cocoa powder?”

“Yep, thanks, Bobby.”

Around the room, there’s couples at their respective tables. Men with men. Women with women. Straight couples too. Groups laughing and talking over each other, sipping from champagne flutes. Behind the bar, Bobby is working around the man at the espresso machine. He brushes a hand along his shoulders when he passes.

It takes Patrick several minutes to take all of this in, and then it distills into a smile that he really can’t shake.

Their drinks come. The sun lights the steam rising from his tea in its clear glass mug.

When he looks up at David, he’s smiling, sneaky and sweet at the same time, a soft bow of his lips over his own mug.

“Thank you, Daivd,” he says, soft and tender, and his throat goes tight at the end of it.

David shakes his head. “For what?”

-

David goes to work that afternoon, and Patrick heads home. He’s alone, and that’s normal. It should bother him, but it gives him a moment to think.

That morning, in that space, with people who just wanted to be  _ together.  _ With people who felt like him. It’s set things right in his mind in such an insistent, immediate way. 

It’s a perfect chance. He knows by now to take those moments when they come. 

It’s past seven, but he knows they’re awake, so he calls his mom.

“Are you guys busy?”

“Oh just winding down for the night, watching TV, honey. Is everything ok?”

“Uh… I was wondering if I could stop by. I want to… I wanted to talk to you guys.”

It takes her a second or two longer to respond than would be typical. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Her voice is soft, knowing. It carries him the entire car ride.

His dad meets him in the foyer when he lets himself in, hugs him tight like he used to after winning baseball games and birthdays and Patrick just holds on for a bit, digging up that old feeling and centering it in his mind. 

The house is filled with the scent of something baking, and how his mom had the time to preheat and whip something up in the amount of time it took him to drive over, he has no idea.

He stands aimless in the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up to his ears, until his mom steps in front of him with a warm cup of tea.

He looks up at her, and he can feel it on his face. That look he’s had since he was a kid. The look he gave when he accidentally knocked down her big ceramic mixing bowl when he was trying to make cereal at seven. The look when his dad bought him those really nice skates the Christmas after he’d gotten into his first and only fist fight. 

She reaches out, cradles his cheek.

“Let’s sit down,” she says.


	4. doc martens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Doc Martens - Myylo
> 
> (Maybe doesn't fit the tone of this chapter, but the lyrics definitely do.)

Sufficiently hugged and held, he makes it home that night, the smudge of tears still on his cheeks. When he’s getting ready for bed, he catches sight of his tattoo in the bathroom mirror. It's still a little odd to see it on his skin.

In the days before he committed to the idea of getting a tattoo, he worried about what it might feel like. He anticipated a lot of pain, but reality was entirely different than what he’d built up in his mind. Maybe it was the happy accident of meeting David. Maybe it was because he was a little stronger than he thought.

He tries to remember the scratch of the needle, the tenderness and itch in his skin afterwards. But now that it's healed, it’s almost a far away memory now.

-

He’s with David more often than not as the weeks wear on. They go to dinner, watch movies, get coffee and donuts on a Saturday morning before David goes in for two lengthy back to back appointments. 

David treats his work with breezy austerity. He always gives his best, like it’s easy. He’s strict and clean and doesn’t settle, isn’t afraid to express his exact thoughts to his clients, and it should be a surprise when he invites Stevie to tattoo his new piece, but somehow it isn’t. She’s been learning. Patrick doesn’t know if she’s good or not, where she’s at on the spectrum of tattoo artist skill, but if David asks her, she must be pretty good.

It’s another floral design. A sunflower, vivid green and yellow on the inside of his wrist where there’s just enough room to place something.

“Ooh, that’s pretty. The yellow is very nice,” David says, turning his wrist once she’s finished. He’s without a sweater today, in a black short sleeved button down that’s sewn with panels of soft silk and cotton. It’s half-untucked from his black pants. It must be apropos to show off your own ink to your customers, and probably not to the end of making your boyfriend want to jump your bones every time you turn around, but this is working too. 

“You’ve learned so much under me.” David smirks at his own brand of compliment.

Without skipping a beat, Stevie grimaces and then snorts a laugh. “Hardly.”

Patrick laughs too, from his chair. David turns, face flush and drawn with apprehension, but it fades quickly to quiet relief.

“That’s really cool,” Patrick says with assurance, peering over, prompting David to bring his wrist closer.

It’s surrounded by the veritable garden that are David’s other tattoos, which are a little more lush and exotic than this simple sunflower, but somehow Stevie’s managed to blend it seamlessly, like it's a part of all the others. It's a bright spot peeking from the richness around it.

“You ready for your next one yet?” David asks, still staring at Stevie’s work, preening.

“No, no, no.” Patrick shakes his head. “I’m not doing that again.”

David pouts. “I’ll convince you eventually.”

Stevie wraps it up, cleans David’s station and goes to prep the rest of the shop for closing. It’s after hours, but the little sunflower had really only taken thirty minutes or so. It was nice being here with no customers. It felt...secret, and somehow really normal. Like Patrick was welcomed into their world.

“Are you hungry?” Patrick asks as David tidies all the minute details Stevie left undone.

“Again I say, have we met?” 

Patrick laughs, and once David’s finished, he takes his hand and threads their fingers.

“Have fun tomorrow!” David calls across the parking lot after Stevie, when the shop is dark and locked up for the day, referring to his rare Saturday off with no appointments tomorrow. She flips them off on the way to her car.

They grab take out and head for Patrick’s apartment.

To have someone over—anyone, significant or otherwise—feels settled. Feels easy.

He expects David to balk at his lack of decor or the generic prints he’s hung on the wall. David glances around but says nothing, helping unpack the food.

After they eat, David asks where the bathroom is, though it’s painfully plain in his tiny apartment. He tends to his new tattoo, removes the plastic wrap and dabs it with ointment before returning to the sofa while Patrick finishes cleaning up after their dinner. 

He’s just sitting at the end of the sofa, admiring the new little addition to his wrist, all warm and soft angles in the lamplight, so Patrick eases next to him, facing him, and cradles David’s wrist so he can look too.

“It’s nice,” he says, and traces his fingers across David’s forearm, a few inches under the sensitive skin.

“She did a great job,” David says. “She’s almost ready to take it to the next level, I think. A few more practice runs and she’ll be golden.”

“Practice. On you?”

“Maybe. If I have an idea of something I want.”

“Mm. And why a sunflower?” Patrick traces the curve of a vivid orange petal, further down David’s forearm.

David’s quiet for a moment, and Patrick wonders if it’s considered unorthodox to ask about the meaning of someone else’s tattoos.

“It’s different from my others,” David says, simply enough.

Patrick looks up, and David’s expression is even, watching Patrick with intent, interest. Then he’s blinking away, pressing his lips together.

Patrick can let his answer be literal. Let it be a guarded thing for David’s sake. But he hears what he really means, and he’s always been a man of action...

He leans down, and it's an awkward angle, but he does it anyways… draws his lips across the edge of one pretty green leaf. He hears David’s slow inhale, so he does it again, again, until he reaches the crook of David’s elbow. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, and his voice is surprisingly present.

“What?” David whispers, sounding a little off guard.

“The sunflower.”

“No.” David’s watching him, his eyes dark. “Once you’ve got as many as I have, you forget about the pain.” He pauses for a beat, swallows, seems to shift something aside in his mind. “And Stevie has a surprisingly gentle hand.”

“A good skill to have, I assume,” Patrick says, twisting to lean in closer, arching up for David’s lips.

David’s grinning when they part. “So. Just one more for you then?” 

Patrick shakes his head. “Not gonna happen,” he says, and they laugh together into a slow, languid thing that prompts David’s hand to settle at his neck, thumb brushing across his jaw, holding him there. As if he has any intention of pulling away.

He draws his tongue along David’s lip and pushes in to lick up the little gasp he gives.

David doubles down, kissing back just as ardently. Lazy but searing. 

Patrick needs to be closer, needs to be against him, so he shifts, rises up to straddle David’s hips.

“Oh.” David’s hand charts up his thigh, to the back pocket of his jeans. “Not shy at all, I see.” 

He kisses Patrick again at this new, easier angle, pulling at his bottom lip.

Patrick’s heart thrums.

“Am I supposed to be shy?”

“It's not necessary.” David smiles, kisses him. 

They stay here, kissing until they’re dizzy. Patrick is at least. He takes a moment to blink the haze away. 

“The first night. When we…” Patrick tries to land on a word. “Slept together…”

David’s eyes fall closed and he smiles. 

Patrick reaches up, traces gentle fingers along David’s hairline, curls them behind his ear.

“You were holding back.”

“I was.”

“For what?” Patrick brushes the clean line of his beard, and he’s so utterly lost at that that it takes a beat for him to refocus when David speaks.

“For you,” David says, pulling from his own reverie, opening his eyes and there’s a new, different kind of desire in them. “For me. For things to settle in. I don’t want to be someone you regret. I’ve had too many of those.”

There’s a million other reasons, Patrick can tell, but maybe there aren’t words for them. Words are difficult, he knows. He presses in again, kisses David full and sure. He hums when David’s hand finds the back of his neck, when fingers dip under the crisp collar of his button down shirt. 

“Thank you,” he breathes when they part.

“For what?” David’s voice is all breath. 

“For being so...patient. Nice. Good.”

David opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He works through it, smiling and then trying to swallow it away as he so often does. His eyes shine bright, bright, until he gets ahold of himself enough to murmur, “Well, literally no one’s ever called me patient or nice or good before, especially during foreplay.”

“Oh. Is this foreplay?” Patrick teases and gets another smiling kiss. 

He should admit that he’s just a little terrified, but only because he’s never wanted someone this much. No one’s filled his senses like this, in a way that spurs him on to be a little brave. He’s always been thorough, but he’s never been in it. He feels it all now, in David’s arms, in David’s kiss. 

But he thinks all of that is better left unsaid for now until he can make better sense of it and the air isn’t so thick.

He should shy at all the intimate, unknown things. The acts, the moves he doesn’t yet know. Pleasing David. But somehow it’s not a worry. They’ll figure it out. He will. David will tell him, guide him, and learn him too. 

He wants that. 

He ducks down, pushes the collar of David’s shirt out of the way, aims to press his lips into the hint of dark hair there, like he’s been dying to since he saw him in that fluffy robe, all fresh and warm and clean. but he pauses halfway in.

His fingers curl, clutching the collar and he waits just a minute. He just wants to commit this to memory. All of David under him, full and masculine. The spread of his legs over David’s hips. The scent of his aftershave or cologne or perfume oil or whatever it is that’s got its bouquet practically imprinted in his mind by now. He tenses up with the weight of the moment, the thrill of it. He ghosts a thumb over that dark hair. Pushes out a breath. 

“Everything ok?” David’s hand flexes against the back of his neck.

Patrick blinks up, vision full of David’s chin, his worried frown.

“Mmm-hmm,” Patrick hums, still stroking curiously. “I’m great. I’m just…”

But his thoughts fray and maybe they’ve talked—waited—enough for now. He dips to taste, to test, and the dark shadow of David’s chest hair is silk against his lips. He presses in, flicks his tongue against it.

David lets out a high whine, like he’s already right there with him, pushes a rough hand through his short hair. “Patrick...”

His name, just  _ said  _ like that, sends an electric spark up his spine.

He pushes the  collar further,  until it’s straining against the button. 

David’s hand brushes down his spine. “You want to take it off?”

Patrick looks up at him full on. His eyes are doe-like and shining in the lamplight, understanding, edging towards flirty. “We can take off however much you want,” he amends with a smile.

“Yes. Yes, yes,” Patrick hurries to say. “Let's do that.”

He grasps the  topmost button and twists , exposing more skin where the hair grows thicker. 

He reaches in, rakes his nails against it.

“David,” he breathes, inhales the clean, woodsy scent of him, decides to bite at the jut of his collarbone. 

David lets out a contented hum, the cool of his rings a welcome contrast when he pets at the nape of Patrick’s neck.

He finishes the buttons and pushes a hand under the shirt, running down David’s side, a span of smooth, warm muscles under his palm. 

“Let me see you,” he says, a command if it hadn’t been so gentle, and leans back to let David shift up and push the shirt off his shoulders. 

The tattoos continue nearly uninterrupted from wrist to shoulder. The first one he sees that’s different than the spray of florals is a black tribal design on his bicep, arcing lines of varying thickness that mimic wind, smoke maybe. He smirks, tracing it.

“It was the 90s,” David says, breathless.

Patrick smiles. There’s more flowers over his shoulders, a butterfly tucked near the juncture of his shoulder and his chest, crowded in with new tattoos like he’s tried to hide it. Patrick suspects this too is from the 90s. He leans in, kisses and licks his way from shoulder to shoulder.

When he’s finished and David’s sufficiently breathless, he traces a hand dazedly down his chest until he sees another spot of ink just over the waistband of David’s pants. It’s the cliche Asian characters, elegant but unyielding.

He brushes it gently with the pad of his thumb. “What does this mean?”

“Um,” David looks down, though he knows which one he means. “It says ‘wild thing’ in Japanese. Not one of my finer moments, but it was one of my first, and Alexis had just gotten hers in Hong Kong. Couldn’t let her look like an idiot alone, so…”

Patrick laughs.

“I try to forget about it,” David murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” David says, lifting a palm to Patrick’s chest, buttons catching under his fingers, because Patrick’s been a little too eager to play fair in the state of undress. “I’m all yours.”

Patrick tries not to let his ‘fond’ face takeover, but he’s sure he’s too late. He reaches up, cradles David’s chin in his hand for just a moment before he’s surging in again to kiss him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I think you’re so… Is that something I can call you?”

“God, yes. Please do. Always.”

Patrick huffs a relieved laugh that stutters into a sigh. 

Somewhere in the middle of all this, David’s untucked the front of his button up, palm against his lower belly, just over the buckle of his belt. He curls his fingers against his navel and Patrick shudders.

“Can we take this off?” David tugs at the shirt.

“Yes,” Patrick croaks and lets him pull the shirt tail completely free and start unbuttoning.

He shrugs out of it and David’s hands fly to his shoulders, his chest, his stomach before it’s even hit the floor.

Patrick watches the colors in David’s skin brush against the fair of his own.

His fingers rise to trace the imprint of his own artwork on Patrick’s skin. 

Patrick watches this too, colors blending.

“Gotta be honest, at the risk of sullying my professionalism, I liked what I saw when you came in for your tattoo. But like this…” David’s eyes flash dark and devious, and the entire atmosphere shifts. His hand gives his bicep a squeeze. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Patrick smiles, moves so his hands bracket David on either side, using the back of the couch for leverage.

It brings their hips together at a new, closer angle that makes Patrick yearn and tremble all at once.

“I’m all yours.”

-

In the morning, the sky is dull and stormy, grey light filtering through the blinds in his bedroom, and Patrick curls closer, brings the blankets up around them, holds David close.

There’s no work today. No reason to hurry out of bed and grab breakfast and kiss goodbye. He buries his face in David’s shoulder.

He shifts, murmurs something, and twists to loop an arm around Patrick’s waist. 

Patrick smiles into his chest. “Good morning.”

“Mmm-mmm,” David mumbles, negating, and Patrick laughs. “S’raining?”

“Looks like it.”

“Mkay.”

He’s quiet again, long enough for Patrick to drift back to his own haze of thunderstorms and sleep.

It could be a few moments or hours later, he isn’t sure, but the sky’s a little lighter when David’s voice startles him awake again. “Can we have pancakes?”

Patrick smiles, stretches a little, eases into consciousness. “I don’t think I have stuff to make that.”

David grumbles.

“I have oatmeal. And toast. And flaxseeds.”

“Ew.” David’s nose wrinkles. Patrick kisses it. “This is a scary place.”

Patrick kisses his lips, watches his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. “I’m Postmating some pancakes,” he goes on, but makes no move to find his phone. Instead he scoots closer, so that they’re nearly chest to chest.

Patrick’s heart rushes, so he kisses him again.

They doze for a few more minutes before David is reaching for his phone, ordering, asking if he prefers blueberries or chocolate chips. 

Chocolate chips, definitely. David is pleased.

Patrick is the one who retrieves the order from the delivery person when it arrives, while David brushes his teeth and fixes his hair and convenes on the sofa with Patrick’s throw blanket pulled around his shoulders. 

They eat and turn on the TV, find something mindless, and the storm outside gets darker.

David’s head moves to his lap, Patrick’s fingers in his hair. The fourth episode ends and Netflix prompts them to continue. The room goes quiet.

They lay for a minute, still and close and calm. David’s hair is soft against Patrick’s fingers and he nuzzles his cheek against Patrick’s thigh to encourage it.

“I talked to my parents,” Patrick says through the silence.

“Hmm?”

“After we went to brunch that day. After our second date,” he whispers. “I talked to my parents. About… me.”

David sits up. “Oh?”

Patrick just nods and smiles, ducks his chin.

“That’s… And they’re ok…? With it?”

He nods, lets out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah they're ok.”

“That’s so good.” David reaches over and grasps his arm, traces his bicep through his sleep shirt. “This is a very personal thing, and you should do it on your terms. I hope you didn’t feel pressured.”

Patrick shakes his head. “No. No I needed to. I’ve needed to for a long time. I wanted to. I’m glad I did.”

David smiles knowingly.

“Actually… there was something I wanted to tell you too,” Patrick says, pushing on through the lump in his throat.

David’s eyes drift away. His encouraging smile fades. “Oh. Ok.”

“Because I feel like I need to be totally honest with you.”

“Ok.”

“I wanted to tell you that I was engaged to a woman…” Patrick starts. “I broke it off only a few months ago because… no matter how hard we tried, it just wasn’t going to work. With her. And more importantly, I realized exactly why it wasn’t going to work. Or I just finally decided I wanted to accept it? I don’t know, maybe both. So I didn’t know if I… know if I could be… who I am.”

Tears bubble up suddenly. David’s hand reaches to squeeze his knee.

“And meeting you… I just think you’re so… wonderful and attractive and smart and creative and so… yourself.”

Now, he wants to look at him. He wants to see those astrobright tattoos against black cotton. See him bundled in the blanket he’d dragged here from the bedroom like a cloak, like he was comfortable here already. Beautiful black hair that’s still a little undone because he’s without his usual product. But he’s sure the sight will stop the words in his chest. 

“When I first came to your shop, I wanted to get something that would symbolize a new start for me. Embracing this about myself. Figuring it out. Just for me. And I think somehow it… jump started a lot of things. My parents and I are very close and I wanted them to know… about me.”

_ You?  _ He decides to play it safe for now, though this too is true.

“But I’ve been so scared that they’d see me differently or treat me differently. But after we went to brunch and I saw everyone so… comfortable. Saw myself there. I knew I needed to do it.”

The room goes quiet once he’s finished. He feels winded. Like all of his words are exhausted.

He hears David sniffle. When he looks over, he’s using the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes. 

“Well,” he says, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I once had someone leave me for a rollercoaster, so… comparatively… this isn’t...” He sighs. He shakes his head. He’s got a way of making it look like he’s just willing tears away, doesn’t want to wreck his undereyes, but Patrick sees the emotion slip. “This is… unexpected.”

And that breathes volumes.

He’s held all of this inside for so long, scared to show himself, be himself, choose for himself. It feels wonderful. To be honest, to be seen. 

To have met someone so beautiful in so many ways. To have parents who understand and believe him and love him. 

He huffs a laugh. 

“A rollercoaster?” he chokes out.

“I said what I said,” David says, just as weepy, and then they’re both laughing and sobbing all at once. David’s hand moves from his arm to pull him in. Patrick goes easily, tucks his head against David’s shoulder, leaned awkwardly across the console. David presses a kiss to his temple, hugs him tight.

-

Because their hours are so different, it means finding time together is a challenge. Patrick invites David over multiple times a week, but sometimes David will have an appointment and it's a no go, and Saturdays are almost always busy. 

Since it's one of his two days off a week, Patrick uses it to his advantage to bring David lunch.

He quickly learns David’s complicated coffee order, and his tastes in food. David likes savory, sweet, heavy, rich, clean. Everything, really. It makes ordering easy, though he always asks first just to be sure.

He pulls up to the shop, gathers up their food and steps out of the car. Through the windows he can see a man in a shaggy cardigan that either costs more than his rent or has been plucked from the dregs of a thrift shop. He’s draped lazily across the counter, a camera dangling from around his neck and he’s talking to David, who stands behind the desk, expression radiating unease.

Stevie stands hapless beside him, catches Patrick’s eye through the window.

Then the man is reaching over, taking David’s face in his hands, and Patrick wrenches the door open.

David takes a step back, out of the touch, lowers his head.

“Hey,” Patrick says, finding his steadiest voice. He looks the man over, head to toe, then turns to David. “Brought you lunch.”

David just nods, doesn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“David,” the man drawls, lazy and bored. “Please don’t tell me this is another after-effect of your luckless downfall?”

“Um, no this is Patrick,” David bites out in a sudden burst of bravado, “and he isn’t an after-effect.”

Then it looks like this is all David can say without getting ill. 

“Patrick,” the man says, turning towards him, poising one elbow against the countertop. “How very… boyish.”

Patrick doesn’t lose his smirk, cuts his eyes to Stevie and back to the man. “Sorry, and who are you?”

“Sebastien Raine,” the man says on a sigh, like it’s beneath him to even address Patrick directly. “He’s not your usual type, but maybe someone contrary was what you needed. Sweet but démodé in a Renaissance painting sort of way…”

Oh, so he  _ isn’t  _ addressing Patrick directly. 

“Please stop talking to him. Please stop talking  _ about  _ him.” David’s gone pale but he goes on. “You’ve said your piece and I’ve said mine, and my answer was clear. So it’s time for you to step the fuck off.”

Sebastien scoffs, though his mouth has hung open all this time, perhaps it’s permanent state of vapidity. Perhaps he thought it was attractive. He doesn’t take his eyes off Patrick. 

Stevie steps in now. “I think David is refusing your business, and by extension your presence in our shop.”

“Suit yourselves,” Sebastien says, gapes fully at David and then Patrick, and ambles through the door with a chime of the bell.

“What was that?” Patrick asks, glancing between the two of them. 

David throws down the pen he’s been rolling between his fingers, pushes past Stevie and past the other stations to his back room. The door shuts pointedly behind him.

Patrick looks up at Stevie.

“Is he ok?”

“I don’t know.” Stevie shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, wild eyed.

“Should I…?”

“If he lets you.”

Patrick checks Stevie one more time, a quiet glimpse, just to make sure she’s ok too before he heads for the back room.

The door isn’t locked, so he peeks inside.

David’s standing at his workstation, shoving things around noisily, his back to him. 

“I have your sandwich,” Patrick says pathetically. He holds up the bag.

“Just set it somewhere,” David says, raw. The usual, breezy timbre of his voice is gone, replaced with something hard and challenging. 

“David,” Patrick says, fist clenching around the paper bag. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Who was that guy?”

“Nobody,” he bites over his shoulder. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“I think it does.”

David tosses down whatever he’s trying to organize, tools rattling and rolling against the metal countertop.

He throws his head back, inhales harshly.

“David, I’m not trying to upset you more, I just want to know what’s going on and why he…”

David covers his face with his hands, still staring up at the ceiling.

“If you're going to tell me things, then I have to tell you things too,” he murmurs.

“What? David, what are you…” Patrick steps forward but then David’s turning towards him, bracing his hands on the counter behind him.

His eyes shine and his lips tremble, and then all at once words are spilling out.

“When the CRA raided our shit, I was in the middle of tattooing Adam Levine. I was supposed to go out to a party with some of his friends, but instead I answered a call from my sister who’d been calling literally nonstop. The next day, the locks were changed on my shop, they seized my apartment, and I flew home coach to Vancouver to a nuclear war zone. And yes I realize exactly how pretentious, how selfish all of that sounds.”

“David, I don’t…”

“His name is Sebastien. We… dated? I honestly don’t know if you could classify anything I ever did with anyone else as  _ dating,  _ but…” David cuts his gaze at Patrick. “It's really fucked when people who have basically no soul, basically only care about themselves, know fuck all about you except exactly where to poke. All he ever did was trash my work and talk about how it wasn’t really art. It wasn’t ‘transcendent.’ Wasn’t ‘important.’ Even though half of my acquaintances had work by me, including him.”

“There were these pictures. That I don’t remember taking.” David’s hands tremble as he twists at his rings. “That he dug up a week before my shop opened. That’s why I needed my parent’s investment, and their help covering it all up. It didn’t hurt the business too much, but it did give me a reputation that was… well, it was true, so I didn’t fight it much. These are the people that I was around before we moved back here. This was the person I  _ was.  _ No one in those circles gave a shit about anything, myself included. Until we got fucked over, and I know that it looks like we’re still well off, and we are. Losing money wasn’t ever the problem. Not really. But it sure as fuck showed us who our friends were. I had an entire  _ business  _ taken from me. The one thing that I really…cared about.” David pauses, takes a breath. “All I got out of the house were twenty years of sketchbooks, whatever clothes I had there, and the Tamagotchis. That was what Alexis chose to save for me. And isn’t that just fucking sad? That I’m still crying over that?” He turns away now, facing the workstation again, picking up things and shoving them away.

“Getting out of there was a wake up call. I’ve worked on myself alot since then, and for the first time in my life, I thought I was in a really good place. And then I met you. You’re so perfect… and I never wanted you to have to know who that person was.” At this point, Patrick doesn’t think he means Sebastian. “I’m just so fucking embarassed.”

Patrick steps forward, wants to reach out and put his arms around him, but shoves his hands in his pockets instead. He looks down at the clean tile floor.

“David. I’m not under the misconception that either of us is  _ perfect _ . And I’m happy you had time to work some things out for yourself, but David...the only person you’ve shown me is confident and driven and sees things where other people don’t… and no past mistake or experience overshadows that person. For me.”

He hears David’s breath catch and when he gathers the nerve to look up, David’s facing him again, trying in vain to keep it in check, but tears that his fingers can’t catch roll down his cheeks.

“You say such nice things.” David blinks rapidly. 

Patrick smiles, and something switches gears from his head to his heart. Like a distant thought has pushed itself forward into fullness. It’s right there on his lips. He imagines that maybe he could pin it there, keep it just a little while longer. He knows, somehow, that one day it will tumble out of him naturally, in conversation, in perfect timing.

Instead, he steps forward with purpose to kiss David’s damp cheek, strokes his shoulder through his soft cotton t-shirt. 

“Let’s eat,” he says, and they settle into the armchairs and talk the afternoon away until tears are dry and ghosts are a little more distant. 

-

He arrives at the shop one sunny Saturday to find David at the counter, in deep conversation with an older woman with a blunt bob haircut and a case of tiny tubes of hand cream spread between them. He’s nodding eagerly, massaging his hands together, lips twisting in concentration while she goes on about organic ingredients and fresh goat’s milk. 

He takes the woman’s offer of five for thirty dollars and takes her card. When she leaves, David grasps all five tubes in his hands like he’s the dragon of moisturizers. He grins so big his shoulders scrunch towards his ears.

“Hello handsome,” David says with the dopamine-filled cheer of retail therapy.

Patrick smiles, fond. “Hi.” 

He sets their lunch on the counter and leans over to kiss David’s cheek.

“I got some CBD hand cream,” he says, lifting his haul proudly. “She was very nice.”

Patrick notices his fingernails are painted, black and shiny, and that’s a wonderful new discovery.

He grins. “That’s great. Wouldn’t imagine you’d let another product impune your stringent skincare routine.”

“I like to buy local when I can,” David says, leading them to his room in the back. “Plus, did I mention CBD?”

Patrick unpacks the bag and hands David his serving of bagels and lox.

“My mom’s never gone door to door selling stuff. That takes a lot of guts.”

“Your mom makes crafty things?”

Patrick settles into one of the big armchairs. David scoots his closer before sitting. 

“Yeah. She and her friend have their own business. They do crocheted stuff. Hats, scarves, head things. Some of it is real cashmere, I’m pretty sure. And they just started doing candles.”

“With essential oils?” David perks up. 

“I really don’t know, but…”

“I wanna meet your mom.”

Patrick blinks. 

“Uh. David. If you really want to…”

“Oh, God. No. No. Not like that.” David waves his hands wildly before they settle in his lap and his lips bow to pin back a sly smile. “It's just…I’ve got this idea.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 months later is better than never, right?

“Hi! Oh you got a haircut!”

“Hi. Hello. Clint Brewer.”

“David Rose.”

“It's so nice to finally meet you.”

“I brought wine.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, thank you.”

Hugs and handshakes are exchanged at the crisp and clean, red-bricked entrance to the Brewer’s before Marci ushers them inside. The place smells like home cooking and is decked with every memento of a well-loved family home.

David smirks at the first frame picture he can spot, one of four-year-old Patrick in a little toque and galoshes on a sled, with his father pushing him from behind, hunched over, blurred and grainy but for the big smile that matched his son’s.

Patrick sees him looking. Smiles.

“We’re having pasta with a lemon butter sauce, capers and Parmesan. Garlic bread on the side. Does that sound alright?” Marci looks between them.

“You had me at ‘lemon butter, capers, and Parmesan,’” David exudes, dipping at the knees a little.

The four of them laugh together.

“Well great, I’m glad I picked a favorite.” Marci says, then looks down to read the label of the white blend David brought along. “Let’s open this, shall we?” she says, turning from the foyer, heading into the kitchen. 

“Oh yes that would be nice,” David whispers breathlessly as Patrick ushers him forward through the den.

At Patrick’s side, he reaches up to squeeze his shoulder through his soft button down, and Patrick huffs a sigh, gives a tight smile.

This is good. This is. Great. This is nice.

He sees David briefly scan the tall, solid wood antique bookcase his dad has at the corner of the room. Then David’s looking back at him, grinning, the corners of his eyes scrunching with it. 

The kitchen is painted buttery yellow and bright, and David’s fingers unwind at the sight of it. The full smell of it.

Clint plucks four wine glasses from the cabinet.

“So David, you’re looking for your own shop right now?”

David keeps quite close to Patrick, lingering with him near the island. He clears his throat, blinks at the question. “Oh. Um. Yes.”

He glances to Patrick for support.

“He and a friend from the shop he works at now are going rogue,” Patrick continues the thread.

“Well, you’ve got a good numbers guy,” Clint gestures towards Patrick with the neck of the wine bottle before pouring. 

Patrick moves his hand, shoves both into his pockets, scrunches his shoulders. David settles a heavy hand against one, almost as if he’s trying to shove them back down, then settles for rubbing at Patrick’s back. He’s sure he’s blushing seven different ways right now, and it isn’t that he expected this to go bad at all, but he just hadn’t expected...

“Starting your own business is a big undertaking,” Clint goes on.

David nods. He shifts now, tangling his fingers in front of him. “Yes. I had my own shop. A while back. I was in desperate need of a good numbers person then, so… Lucky me.”

At the sink, Marci brings over the colander to strain the angel hair.

“Can I help with something?” David asks suddenly. “I can do the bread.”

“Oh, that would be really helpful, thank you David.”

He moves away, leaving Patrick alone and leaning against the island. 

His dad holds out a glass, meaning Patrick must untuck his hands to take it. Clint smirks knowingly. 

He leans next to him, opposite where David had been, claps him hard on the shoulder. Patrick just grins at the tile.

“Patrick tells me you have your own side business, Mrs. Brewer.”

“I do, yes. My friend and I, we crochet little things.”

David throws a smile over his shoulder to Patrick.

“I’m looking to bring hand-crafted goods into my shop. Have a display in part of the space. I hope it isn’t too much to ask to see some of your work.”

“Oh, she’ll show you all day and night,” Clint pipes up. 

Patrick snorts.

“Hush, you, or you’ll be getting another pair of mittens for Christmas.” She cuts a teasing look his way. “Sure, David. I’m happy to do that after dinner. I made a garlic butter spread; can you put that on the bread before we put it in the oven?”

“Oh, this is such a treat,” David says, taking the knife she hands over. “Thank you for cooking all of this.”

“Of course. I like to. If I were cooking anything with carrots, we’d have an entirely different story.”

“Ah, The Great Carrot Fiasco of 1989,” Clint says.

Patrick flushes and ducks his head. “Yeah, and I still can’t stand them.”

“The only time you refused to eat my cooking,” Marci says.

“He took himself to bed that night,” Clint recounts. “He’d disappeared after we washed up. I went to go find him and he was already in his pajamas. Thought we were mad at him. The next time he took himself straight to bed was after that hockey game in grade ten.”

“Ok, let's be clear, I was mad at myself that time.” Patrick holds his wine glass to his chest, eyes wide in defense. “And that idiot ref.”

“The ref,” Marci echoes. “We will never hear the end of the ref in grade ten.”

David chuckles under his breath. 

“Ok, I don’t really think we need to hear all of this,” Patrick defends. 

“We’re teasing, honey.” Marci grins. “Only because you’re such a sweet boy otherwise.”

David peeks up from where he’s still buttering the bread, catches Patrick’s eye. He smiles, big and wide and sentimental under his dark lashes.

And it’s a little contagious; Patrick catches it, lets it settle there at the middle of his chest, pull at the corners of his lips, ducks his chin to grin secretly into his glass. 

-

“That was fun,” David says in the car later, after dinner and dessert and touring his mom’s craft room. After hugs on the porch. After Patrick had caught David’s expression all squinched and giddy with his arms around his mom’s shoulders, her arms around his.

Patrick can only smile.

“Yeah.”

David reaches over, touches a hand to his knee. “You ok?”

Patrick nods. “Yeah, fine. I… I’m just… I’m relieved, I think. Or not really relieved exactly, just… happy? Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” David says instantly, assuredly. He gives Patrick’s thigh a squeeze.

Headlights pass, and for a moment all there is is Patrick’s own small smile, secret in the dark of the car, David’s fingers tracing circles against denim. 

He’d known his parents would be ok. Were ok. Now it just felt like that loop had been closed for good. He’d told them, they’d met David. They  _ loved  _ David. It discounted all the years of tiptoeing and shying away from himself to say it felt like it always had been, but maybe it was that it felt like it always could be. It always  _ could be _ like this.

The pattern David’s fingers trace changes, breaking his reverie.

“Oh. You’re taking me home?” he says, noting the direction they’re taking.

Patrick glances away from the road. “Did you want to come over?” he asks innocuously.

“Um. If that’s… well, if that’s ok?” David tests. His teeth are set together, uneasy.

“Of course it's ok, David.” He snorts. “Are you trying to escape Alexis again?”

“Ok, it's not that.” David’s hands flail. Then his voice gets small. “Well, it's not only that.”

Patrick tunes into this, glances over at where David twists his rings. “Everything ok?”

“Yes!” he bursts, like a hot kettle that can’t quite decide if it’s time to bubble over or not. “Yes, everything’s fine! It just felt like the right time to tell you… something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

Even in the dark, Patrick can see the flush creeping up through the collar of David’s sweater under a passing streetlight. There’s a little smirk at the corner of his mouth, just enough that his dimple shows. He must feel Patrick looking, because he ducks his chin to try and hide it, but it only grows.

_ Something I’ve been wanting to tell you. _

Oh.

There’s a rush, like being swept up, wrapped up, held tight. It tingles against Patrick’s skin.

As if this evening hadn’t already been perfect…

He concentrates, checking the road, grounding his mind. It had only been a few months. A few months since the decision to text the number on the business card, to have even followed through on getting that tattoo at all, and as frivolous, as out of character as the decision had seemed then, all he knew was that it had felt right. For himself. It had felt like now was the time. Maybe life was just full of precipices like that.

“Well, I’m listening, David,” he says, with just enough teasing in his voice to let David know he knows, and just enough whisper to let David know he’ll readily return the sentiment.

David huffs. “Well, I don’t want to tell you on the highway, Patrick!”

He grins. Goes quiet. 

In the time it takes them to pull up at Patrick’s apartment, he’s already imagined it dozens of times in his head. How David’s voice will sound. Exactly what he’ll feel. He can’t land on any one iteration, and when David’s eyes shine in the foyer light, he can’t catalog any one feeling except fond.

Patrick had half expected to be pounced on, but it’s tender and slow. David winds his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, languid like a cat, until they’re pulled chest to chest and David presses his lips to his.

He hums a little, and Patrick presses closer at the sound, wanting to wrap himself in it, tuck himself up under that chin, against that soft sweater and stay.

When he pulls back, David steadies a hand against his cheek, draws a thumb over the space in front of his ear. Patrick leans into it, watches him, just waits.

“I love you,” David breathes.

It washes over his shoulders, through his chest, anchors him down, brings him to smile for the hundredth time that night.

“I’m so glad that you came to my shop,” David continues, like he has to clarify and contextualize and certify the statement. “I’m so glad you took me to taste cheese and sent me a cake. I’m so glad you were brave with your parents and with me when I… when it was so easy for you to give up and…”

He brushes his fingers over soft cashmere, up over David’s chin and cheek to brush his tears away.

“I love you, David,” he says.

And if David wasn’t already all pliant curves and shining eyes, looking like he’ll happy-sob himself out of his skin at any moment, he melts. Closes his eyes, scrunches his smile to a tiny purse of his lips, tilts back his head. Patrick laughs softly, and says it again. 

He says it again when he gets him on his bed, gets his sweater over his head, can press the words into the dark shadows of ink in his skin.

He puts them to taste and touch when David arches into his mouth, fingers coursing slow but unavailing over the crown of his head. 

David taps and pushes at his shoulder, and then it's Patrick’s turn to be shown, held between strong arms that story a lifetime of deciding whether to be seen or hide, show or not, bare now, surrounding him, keeping him close. He thumbs at Patrick’s ears, the spot of ink that’s visible on his shoulder, gentle until he’s not. Until he’s pressing tight, filling Patrick up, making his scalp tingle even as he brushes reverent fingers at Patrick’s hairline, countering.

Loose and drifting after, he brings David close again, an arm around his waist, purposeful lips pressing one last kiss to the butterfly at his shoulder even as they both slip away. He falls asleep with the scent of snow and pine, the warmth of David’s even breath on his pillow.

-

“My last gig in this godforsaken place,” David muses, gathering the inks he’ll need. 

Patrick smirks and watches him as he floats around the room. It isn’t a bad place. But David’s bursting at the seams to get going, he knows.

“So glad you agreed to let me do the other side. It's going to be beautiful.”

“Why am I more nervous this time?”

“You shouldn’t be.” David preps the area with a careful swipe of ointment over Patrick’s shoulder. “You’re in excellent hands. Have we not solidified this over the past six months?”

“Aw. You’re keeping track?” Patrick says, hitting the mark between feigned affection and actual affection that makes David give a  _ that’s-enough-now  _ hum as he sits and squares up behind Patrick’s shoulder, needle in hand.

Here, Patrick goes quiet, thinks on the permanence of this decision once again. It doesn’t really feel like a new start this time, like he needs this to prove or symbolize all that had happened. This is just a new arc in the circle. Maybe that’s why it's different. It's not about testing and trying to find the right tool to break himself free. He is free. He’s loved. He’s  _ fine.  _

And he can be both. He can be steady, assured Patrick. All the things about him he used to overcompensate for hiding himself… they were still true about him. And so much better in this light. 

He likes the idea of marking things this way; charting who he is as he goes. Taking the good things along with him, wrapped in metaphor only he and David know.

“You ok?” David asks, a gentle, gloved hand at his shoulder.

Patrick looks over and gives a smile. He nods. 

“Yeah. I’m great.”

-

“Oh, this one’s nice. Look.”   


“David, it's $6,000 a month.”

“It has a loft.”

“You don’t need that.”

“Who hired you?”

Patrick laughs and kisses David’s sleep-shirt covered shoulder. “You did.”

“Hm. Well. Also part of your job description is being supportive of my ventures.”

“I must’ve missed that part. I thought I was supposed to advise you on the best choice for the success of your business.”

“Yes, that’s right. A loft would be a necessity to that success.”

“You can’t just use that word, and expect me not to run the numbers, David.” 

Patrick hitches a leg across David's lap, rises up over him in the crisp white pool of his sheets, in the warm light of the bedside lamp, in the shimmer of the skyline diffused through sheer curtains, and David looks about seventy-five percent more interested.

“Oh.” David reaches up, anchors Patrick’s hips with his hands. “Go ahead and run them, if you insist.”

Patrick bends down and laughs into a kiss.

His fingers slip to play under the hem of David’s shirt while David lifts his hips just a little, just enough to get a slow, smooth rhythm going.

Soon, Patrick is panting, wiggling his hips, digging for more friction. David pushes at him, grasps him through his sleep pants before they’re shoved down and Patrick’s on his back, David curled into his side, stroking him long and slow.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, all blushing and flustered like this, in my bed,” David purs, and Patrick looks up at him then to protest—he isn’t flustered—but then he catches the sight of David prowling between his knees, both arms v-ing out to bracket Patrick’s hips, and all argument is knocked out of him.

David drops to his elbows, hands stroking at Patrick's hips and belly, and watching those hands on him, that veritable garden illustrated against his skin… Patrick has to look away, let his head fall back against the pillow. He threads his fingers through David’s soft hair, surprisingly soft though he tugs it from its typical wave. It’s an almost needless guide; David knows exactly what he wants. 

Patrick’s blinking hard, gasping soundless with sparks in his eyes, in his limbs when David props his chin against Patrick’s hip, strokes his thumb across the ticklish part of his lower belly. 

“What do the numbers say now?” he asks.

Patrick tries to recenter his mind on this plane of reality.

“Find something else, David.”

David laughs, low, and licks his lips.

-

“That’s 2,200 square feet, David! You don’t need that much room, for just the two of you! What are you going to fill that space with?”

David pouts and pulls back his phone. He takes a pull from his caramel macchiato, his tongue farting out to catch a bit of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs a shoulder, frowning as he taps the back arrow to return to the listings. They’re back at the brunch spot, mid-morning sunlight filtering through the leaves and the tinted glass, setting David’s skin golden.

“An espresso bar? An actual bar? Aesthetically pleasing furniture to solidify the mood.”

“You can’t have an actual bar in a tattoo shop,” Patrick tuts over his hibiscus tea. “And the espresso machine requires a whole different set of licensing and permits.”

“I just want this to be nice.” David taps at his phone, tense and prickly until Patrick reaches up, brings his hands down so he can hold them both.

“I don’t think it's possible for you to choose anything less than nice,” he says gently, an attempt to calm the nervous ticks threatening to bubble over.

David looks at him for a moment, seems to take this in, takes a breath. He grins, soft and sweet. Then something solid settles there, and Patrick’s versed enough now in David-isms to see what’s unspoken.

_ You’re nice.  _

Patrick strokes his wrist.

“You’ll make it beautiful,” he assures him.

David shakes his chin, flutters his lashes. “This is far too saccharine of a mood to create before breakfast.”

“Oh no. You think we’ll ruin our appetites?” 

“Well, if you’re asking  _ me,  _ survey says no.”

Patrick grins. 

They sit for a moment, just hand holding across the table, until their pancakes arrive. Even then, David’s smile doesn’t fade.

-

Stevie slams the door to her rusted red Focus, the city breeze catching her hair, pushing it into her face so that she grimaces as she flicks it away.

“OK, we agreed on no flannel for this meeting,” David says as she steps up onto the curb.

“Sit and spin,” she says, holding up her middle finger.

“Ouch, David,” Patrick hisses.

“OK, Lets just see this thing!” David shouts, batting his hands.

The three of them step inside the space, where the realtor is already waiting. She shows them the solid oak custom counter that the previous tenants left, and Patrick sees David eyeing the natural sunlight that streams from the tall-paned windows, probably mentally measuring how much they’ll let in at different times of day.

There’s dark wood trim and plenty of lighting fixtures, though they’ll need updating.

The floor is a nice, light hardwood that looks very well kept. There’s a bathroom, a storage room, and plenty of space for both David and Stevie to have their own workspace.

Patrick can tell. David’s in love. He’s at the far wall, looking over the space with his fingers twisted together, smiling to himself, rings bright in the ray of sunlight he stands in.

“So what do we think? Do we have a winner?” the realtor asks.

David looks to Patrick, a gleam in his eyes. “I think I need to consult my numbers guy,” he says softly.

It's in the right ballpark. In a great area. A perfect area, really. High traffic. Lots of other eclectic and unique shops that fit right in with David’s aesthetic. A jewelry shop Patrick spotted on the way in. A coffee shop right next door. A cafe across the street. Everything seems sound and sturdy. 

Patrick tucks his hands into his pockets, shrugs his shoulders, takes one last look around before looking back to David.

“I think we have a winner.”

-

“It’s mine! I can’t believe it’s mine!”

“You know people can see you right?”

David turns to face him, both hands still in the air. He lowers them a bit, reaching out, opening his hands. Patrick steps into the circle of his arms. 

He’d insisted on returning here tonight, after they signed the lease. They’d been home, at Patrick’s, nearly settled in for the night or so he thought. David had been tight with energy, bottom lip caught in his teeth until his anxious bubble burst and he asked to drive back to the space.

David’s eyes shine under the dim fixtures that need work; replacement bulbs, rewiring. He’ll call the electrician tomorrow.

“Thank you,” David murmurs suddenly, whisper echoing across the empty space.

“For what?”

David sways them a bit, brushes his fingertips at the nape of Patrick’s neck. “You helped me get my dream.”

Patrick feels a sweet sort of rush through his shoulders, his spine. It makes him feel bold, and strong. Makes him feel like this current state of happy was where he was always meant to be. 

He brushes a hand over the small of David’s back, over the soft cashmere his sweater. 

“You helped me too, David.”

David’s fingers catch the short little strands at the back of his head.

“Well that’s good that we’re making a habit of it,” he says, his voice wet and wobbly. 

Patrick hums his agreement, then kisses him, full and slow, all out in the open.

David tucks his fingers behind Patrick’s ear, holds him closer, and a new idea sparks at the back of Patrick’s mind, even as his chest still swishes with butterflies.

_ Making a habit of it. _


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprise epilogue, to make up for 6 months?

“M’wah!” David welcomes Patrick’s hello kiss with ardor, looking up from unpacking boxes of gloves, ointment, tape, and other supplies wrapped in crinkly cellophane.

“Hi.” Patrick smiles openly. “I have your soup and sandwich and chocolate cake.”

“Oh!” David says brightly and stands up. “I’m always up for surprise cake.”

Then realization dawns and Patrick watches David’s face go soft and rosy. Patrick kisses his cheek. 

“Congrats on opening,” he whispers.

David’s smile bunches up to the corner of his mouth. 

“Thank you for the numbers help,” he says, and Patrick leans down to give him a kiss.

“Is that all it was?” he teases when they pull away.

David hums and pats his shoulder, squeezes his arm through the smooth blue Oxford. Patrick hums back, shakes his head.

“Cake? Can I have some?” Stevie pipes up, coming out from behind the curtain that sectioned off the back room.

“No there’s none for you, I’m sorry,” David snips, teasing.

Patrick smiles. “Of course you can have some, Stevie.”

They settle around the shop floor, in the black velvet armchairs from David’s room at the old shop, Stevie in the swiveling chair from behind the front desk. 

David’s shop is clean, crisp, bright. Not without an edge, but a different sort of edge than a typical tattoo shop. This place was impeccably furnished, intensively decorated, and used what David called a “sand and stone aesthetic.”

There were only two stations, both neat as a pin. Patrick had asked if just two artists was sustainable, to which David replied that he didn’t see why not, and he’d worked long enough under someone else’s rule, thank you very much, and that it was time for he and Stevie to go it alone. Well. Alone together. 

After Patrick ran the numbers, it seemed like the shop was definitely viable if they met their revenue goals each month. David had already been yielding his share at the old shop, and it was certain that Stevie would match him, with proper marketing and word of mouth. David, however high brow and cultivated he thought his work to be, had already earned his reputation and they were off to a great start, with the first month of appointments booked already. 

“Marci’s here!” David gasps suddenly, fumbling his plate, unable to scramble out his chair fast enough. 

Patrick beams after him as he yanks open the door and greets his mom with a big hug.

He shows her the big, dark wood antique hutch he’s set aside for her products, and they’re already pointing and laying out spots when Patrick sways over, holds his arms out wide. 

“Remember me?” he teases, and his mother laughs, squeezes him tight before diving right back into conversation. 

Patrick watches, grinning ear to ear at the two of them, at David, glowing and eager and brimming with pride at what he’s made. 

It's all come together almost prodigiously. The lease, the equipment, David’s vision, Stevie’s anxious, subdued eagerness, and for Patrick’s part, the paperwork. 

He leads Marci on a tour once they have a layout in the hutch and David’s busy sketching it out in his journal.

There’s a breakroom, where they’ve put a couch and a little fridge, and maybe one day—David can hope—an espresso machine. A little curtain separates the breakroom and Patrick’s office. It’ll mostly be Patrick’s office, anyways. He’s got a desk, and his laptop all set up, calendars and spreadsheets tacked to the corkboard on the wall, and…

Patrick rests a hand on the solid wood, blinks down at the gleaming silver handles on the drawers. He looks back up at his mom who’s looking with interest around the room until her gaze lands on him again.

“So there’s something else that I… well, that I wanted to show you. Something else I wanted to tell you, but you have to keep this one a secret,” he says, working past both the knot in his throat and the thrill in his chest that stir up simultaneously.

She smiles, and her eyes brighten, and even as he pulls open the drawer and reaches back behind the hanging files folder, back where David will never bother to look, he knows she already knows.

So when he pulls out the long velvet box, opens it up between them, her hands are already on her cheeks and her eyes are already shining.

“Oh, Patrick. I’m so excited! I’m so happy! For the both of you!” she stage whispers, trying to stay quiet even as Patrick laughs.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, or when, but… I wanted to tell you.”

And it's almost like he hadn’t really planned to say that, because as soon as it's out, everything’s rushing in, and he’s blinking past tears he hadn’t expected over the double meaning. 

He has just a moment, just a small small moment, to think on that, before his mom’s wrapping him up and squeezing him tight, and laughing in his ear so he has to laugh too. He clutches at the box in his hand, black velvet soft under his fingers until he steps away and turns to stow it back in its hiding place.

“You’ve both made everything so beautiful,” she says, and that… that, Patrick wants to hold on to for a second. 

His mom squeezes his arm one last time, and then they’re grinning and struggling to wipe away their twin smiles to something less giddy before they step back out onto the floor, and David’s swaying over waving a loose leaf sketch in their direction.

And it's almost like… it's almost like that first day. When he’d walked into that old shop, holding tight to that scrap of paper, sure but uncertain, before the tentative plans he’d held so tight to were uprooted. Before that word started to creep into his life more and more often.

Beautiful.

David puts them to work, bringing in the product from Marci’s mini van, directing where each bottle and jar and donut-rolled knitted scarf will go. Patrick catches sight of the sunflower on the inside of David’s wrist when he reaches up to twist a candle jar to face front, catches his dark eyes so so full of happiness and warmth and endearment and pride.

And to think. He gets to look at that forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought about compiling a playlist for this because I'm that kind of person, but I really listened to two songs throughout, both of which play in David's space.
> 
> you should see me in a crown - Billie Eilish  
> seasons nineteen - Grayson Chance
> 
> But he's probably also got some King Princess, Lorde, CHVRCHES, etc.


End file.
